ID  SMITH' 
OK& 
-  AVINUC 


DIVIDED   LIVES. 


DIVIDED  LIVES 


EDGAR   FAWCETT 

IUTHOR   OF  "AN   AMBITIOUS  WOMAN";    "THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   CLAUD  ";     "A    HOPE- 
LESS CASE  "  ;   "  THE  HOUSE  AT  HIGH  BRIDGE  "  ;   SOCIAL  SILHOUETTES  "  ;  "  THE 


NEW  YORK 

NATIONAL   BOOK  COMPANY 
3,  4,  5  A*ID  6  MISSION  PLACE 


COPYRIGHT,  1888. 
BY    BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  COMPANY. 


TO   MY  FRIEND, 

GEORGE   PARSONS  LATHROP, 

POET  AND   NOVELIST, 
IN  THE  HOPE  THAT  MANY   PROSPEROUS   DAYS 

MAY   BE 

APPORTIONED   TO   A    WRITER 

WHOM   THE   LETTERS   OF   HIS   LAND 

SO   ILL  CAN   SPARE. 


2061; 


DIVIDED     LIVES. 


I. 

THE  world,  for  at  least  one  man  who  lived  in  it,  was 
hung  with  black.  This  man's  name  was  Hubert  Throck- 
morton. 

He  had  taken  the  cars  (a  journey  of  about  an  hour  or 
so)  from  New  York  to  Ponchatuk.  In  this  part  of  Long 
Island  lay  an  estate  of  his,  left  him  some  years  ago  by  his 
late  father.  The  season  was  early  June,  and  Locustwood 
(the  name  of  Hubert's  domain)  was  full  of  that  peace, 
dream,  and  tender  surprise  which  marks  our  belated  Amer- 
ican spring. 

There  had  been  times,  with  Hubert,  when  he  had  told 
himself  that  he  detested  Ponchatuk.  Its  name  had  always 
seemed  to  him  the  most  aggressive  array  of  bristling  con- 
sonants. Then,  too,  the  "  South  Side,"  as  it  is  elliptically 
called,  had  been  apt  to  bore  him  past  words,  except  during 
the  season  of  woodcock  and  quail.  He  hated  fishing;  it 
had,  he  thought,  too  much  mean  and  sly  craft  in  it  to  make 
a  real  sport  of;  and  if  you  did  not  fish  at  Ponchatuk  you 
hardly  dwelt  there.  Take  away  its  blue-fish,  Hubert  had 
long  ago  asserted,  and  the  South  Side  had  nothing  left  except 
its  deadly  pancake  flatness  and  its  sanguinary  mosquitoes. 

He  was  in  error,  here ;  it  had  its  magnificent  salty  breezes, 
rushing  straight  across  Fire  Island  from  the  ocean.  This 
evening,  at  twilight,  he  felt  one  of  them  sweep  his  face  and 
throat  like  the  firm,  cool  fingers  of  a  woman.  The  spring 
sky  had  got  a  translucent  daffodil  color,  as  though  the  sunk- 
en sun  had  dropped  into  some  awful  cauldron  of  ruin,  and 
7 


8  DIVIDED 

this  wild  gold  light  were  flung  upward  from  its  giant  confla- 
gration. A  few  of  the  locust-trees  about  the  big,  solemn  old 
house  were  pale  with  vernal  flowers ;  as  their  boughs  tossed 
in  the  uncertain  dusk  they  were  not  unlike  hands  that  plead- 
ed. Soon  the  stars  began  to  come  out  in  their  sweet,  reluc- 
tant way,  and  dotted  the  darkening  heaven  with  globules  of 
white  fire. 

Hubert  continued  to  walk  about  the  grounds.  The  hour 
suited  him,  with  its  melancholy  and  mystery.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  tender  hint  of  promise  that  all  nature  gave, 
there  was  a  plaintiveness  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  wind,  in 
the  loitering  advent  of  gloom,  in  the  glitter  of  dawning  plan- 
ets or  far  remoter  orbs,  that  accorded  with  his  own  heart- 
broken state. 

That  day  had  been  the  wedding-day  of  the  woman  whose 
smile  had  once  fed  his  being,  whose  glance  had  possessed 
the  power  to  dizzy  him  with  a  delicious  vertigo,  whose, 
touch  had  held  for  him  the  electric  energy  no  wisdom  can 
explain  and  no  rhapsody  can  fitly  portray. 

She  had  married,  that  afternoon,  a  man  whom  she  could  not 
have  loved,  and  toward  whom  her  matrimonial  motive  must 
have  been  sordid  in  the  extreme.  A  few  weeks  ago,  if  Hu- 
bert had  been  told  that  Angela  Laight  would  have  stood  at 
the  altar  with  any  lover  except  himself,  he  would  have  felt  in- 
clined to  rank  such  a  prophecy  at  one  with  the  mad  babble 
heard  in  cells  of  asylums.  But  fate  had  kept  this  poison- 
tipped  dart  in  her  quiver,  nevertheless,  and  had  shot  it  at 
him  with  a  frightful  abruptness.  He  had  been  like  one  who 
at  the  same  time  is  called  on  to  stanch  as  best  he  may  an 
ugly  and  almost  mortal  wound  and  to  realize  that  it  has  been 
dealt  him  by  the  last  person  he  has  deemed  capable  of  so 
base  an  injury  .  .  .  Angela  had  never  cared  for  him  ?  She 
was  incapable  of  a  sincere  passion  ?  To  answer  these  ques- 
tions negatively  was  like  denying  gravitation  or  affirming 
that  two  and  two  make  five.  And  yet  he  had  been  forced  to 
face  the  anguish  and  irony  of  such  a  concession.  Even  now, 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  9 

two  good  weeks  after  it  had  been  made  known  to  him,  the 
novelty  of  this  truth  appalled  him  no  less  than  its  nudity. 

Still,  it  had  become,  in  another  sense,  fatally  familiar. 
Hubert  saw  into  his  future,  and  found  that  it  had  about  the 
same  sort  of  perspective  as  a  prairie  for  one  who  roams 
there.  His  life  seemed  to  him  like  a  tangle  of  torn  and 
bleeding  vine-tendrils.  "  What  shall  I  do  with  my  days  ?  " 
he  moaned  in  spirit  to  himself,  again  and  again. 

He  and  Angela  had  known  each  other  just  a  year.  Des- 
tiny had  perpetrated  one  of  her  most  poignant  sarcasms  in 
.making  the  occasion  of  the  girl's  marriage  to  Bleakly  Voght 
the  anniversary  of  her  first  meeting  with  Hubert.  Angela 
had  been  the  former  school-mate  and  present  friend  of  a 
brilliant  and  admired  young  widow  (in  some  rather  far- 
removed  degree  a  kinswoman  of  Hubert's)  named  Mrs. 
Prescott  Averill. 

At  the  dainty  and  ornate  little  Madison  Avenue  abode  of 
the  latter  lady,  Miss  Laight  and  Mr.  Throckmorton  had  met 
one  another.  There  were  those  who  liked  to  say  that  Alva 
Averill  was  equal  to  almost  any  device  for  making  Hubert 
visit  that  pretty  Madison  Avenue  house  of  hers  oftener  than 
he  already  did.  If  such  biting  talk  were  based  on  fact, 
Angela  served  as  a  most  effective  decoy. 

"  She's  the  sweetest  and  brightest  of  girls,"  Mrs.  Averill 
had  told  the  man  who  had  afterwards  fallen  passionately  in 
love  with  her  expected  guest.  "  Everybody  loved  her  at 
Madame  Charnier's.  She  will  be  with  me  for  a  month,  and 
I  do  so  hope  you  will  help  me  to  make  things  pleasant  for 
her." 

These  words  had  been  spoken  in  Mrs.  AverilPs  drawing- 
room,  one  evening,  while  the  rose-tinted  beams  from  a  near 
lamp  fell  across  her  lucent  silken  dress,  and  a  fitful  fire  on 
the  low  hearth  flung  flashes  of  luxurious  revelation  over 
pictured  screen,  tiger-skin  rug,  or  big  email  doisonnt'yax. 

Hubert  nodded  amicably,  and  looked  at  his  hostess.  Being 
a  sort  of  distant  cousin  to  her,  and  having  received  from  her 


IO  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

many  social  courtesies,  he  had  often  asked  himself  why  it 
was  that  he  cared  for  her  so  slightly.  She  had  made  a  re- 
pulsively cold-blooded  marriage.  He  had  always  hated  the 
willingness  that  we  find  in  some  women  to  wed  old  men  for 
their  money,  and  Alva's  husband  had  been  sixty  if  a  day, 
with  red-lidded  eyes,  and  a  very  senile  rheumatism. 

"  I'll  make  things  as  pleasant  as  I  can,"  he  said.  "  I'll  give 
her  a  little  Delmonico  dinner,  and  a  dance  afterwards — you 
to  receive  for  me,  of  course." 

"  That  will  be  ever  so  nice,"  answered  Mrs.  Averill.  Her 
voice  had  grown  lower  as  she  went  on  speaking,  and  into  it 
had  crept  a  husky  note  which  some  men  thought  fascinating. 
"  I  often  wonder,  Hu,"  she  said,  "  why  you  are  so  good  to 
me  always.  It  isn't  because  we're  a  kind  of  cousin  to  one 
another  ;  it  can't  be  ;  for  there's  Efne  Van  Dam,  who's  your 
first  cousin,  and  yet  whom  you  don't  care  a  button  for." 

"  And  I  care  about  the  same  for  you,"  Hubert  told  him- 
self. As  he  glanced,  then,  at  Mrs.  Averill,  this  quick  and 
harsh  mental  response  dealt  its  own  covert  composer  a  sting 
of  conscience.  There  she  sat,  with  keen-tinted  cushions 
piled  for  vivid  background  on  the  small  sofa  that  held  her, 
looking  lithe  and  delicate  as  a  lily.  But  the  semblance 
went  no  further ;  in  cheek  and  throat  dwelt  almost  the  olive 
shade  of  a  mulattress,  and  where  her  smooth,  full  arm  lifted 
a  coil  of  snaky  gold,  its  darkness  of  tinge  turned  nearly 
swarthy.  Her  eyes  had  been  pronounced,  by  those  who  win 
repute  as  judges  of  such  facial  effects,  too  large  for  the  vis- 
age they  beamed  from.  But  they  were  eyes  that  could  flood 
their  night-black  pupils  with  a  rich  and  gentle  splendor,  and 
one  whose  sorceries  found  few  men  so  callous  as  Hubert. 

It  all  came  to  this  :  she  was  very  much  in  love  with  him, 
and!  wanted  him  for  her  second  husband ;  while  he  saw  in  her 
only  a  pretty  woman  who  made  him  reproach  himself  be- 
cause of  the  vague  and  causeless  repulsion  that  she  sometimes 
inspired.  Meanwhile  he  had  no  idea  that  she  aimed  to  be 
his  wife ;  he  would  have  laughed  loud  disbelief  at  anybody 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 1 

who  had  so  affirmed  to  him.  His  friends  had  always  said 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  behave  uncivilly  toward  a  soul 
on  earth,  and  this  was  true  past  all  doubt  whenever  it 
became  a  question  of  his  receiving  civil  treatment  from 
another.  Indeed,  the  art  of  repelling  people  who  approach 
us  in  a  spirit  of  amity  is  never  easy  for  a  large  and  fine 
nature  ;  it  is  the  time  de  laquais  that  can  both  bend  the  knee 
and  curl  the  lip  with  a  most  facile  readiness.  "  If  Hubert 
had  not  been  a  rich  man,  a  good-looking  man,  and  a  Throck- 
morton  as  well,"  somebody  had  once  said  of  him,  "  society 
would  never  have  forgiven  him  for  being  a  poet."  To  which 
the  answer  is  possible,  that  if  he  had  not  been  a  poet  he 
would  perhaps  never  have  seen  anything  to  chill  him  in 
those  sensuous  ebon  eyes  of  Mrs.  Averill. 

As  it  was,  Angela  Laight  came  to  her  friend's  house,  and 
for  about  two  months  all  went  wholly  to  the  young  widow's 
approbation.  Hubert  plainly  admired  Angela  ;  that  was  but 
nature,  his  hostess  would  argue,  since  the  girl  was  both 
handsome  and  bright.  She  would  serve  her  purpose  admi- 
rably, if  she  only  proved,  for  a  month  or  so  longer,  enough 
of  a  mild  drastic  power  to  fix  in  Hubert's  mind  the  habit  of 
going  at  brief  intervals  to  her  own  little  bandbox  of  a  dwell- 
ing. Angela  could  retire,  then ;  her  services  would  have 
grown  needless.  Poor  pauper  that  she  was,  she  could  post 
up  into  Ogdensburg  again,  where  that  shiftless  father  of 
hers  had  plunged  into  some  new  scheme  with  a  smell  of  the 
worst  risk  about  it.  "  I  shall  have  been  very  good  to  her," 
Mrs.  Averill  mused.  "She  can't  complain;  she  had  no 
claim  upon  me ;  and  I  shall  have  let  her  stay  here  in  town 
with  me  a  small  eternity." 

Angela  did  not  complain  ;  she  would  have  held  that  a 
most  thankless  part  to  play.  But  a  few  days  before  the  time 
of  her  departure  she  innocently  made  heaven  and  earth 
crash  together  for  Mrs.  Averill  by  saying,  while  a  little  haze 
of  pink  came  hurrying  along  either  pure-curved  cheek  to 
either  sweet  blue-gray  eye. 

"  Mr.  Throckmorton  asked  me  last  evening,  Alva,  if  I'd 


12  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

be  his  wife,  and — and — though  I  was  ever  so  surprised  and 
confused,  and  could  hardly  speak  at  all,  still,  I  believe  I — I 
said  'yes.'  " 

The  ground  seemed  swinging  like  the  sea  under  Mrs. 
Averill,  and  she  felt  as  if  her  standing  upright  were  a  mira- 
acle.  At  the  same  time  she  had  begun  to  say,  in  cool 
tones : 

"  My  dear  Angela,  I'm  so  pleased !  I  half  suspected  it 
about  a  week  ago.  It's  an  engagement  that  will  charm 
everybody."  And  then  she  kissed  the  girl  on  each  cheek. 

Till  Angela  left  her  house  it  more  than  once  struck  the 
young  widow  that  she  might  go  mad  and  do  some  dire  thing. 
Her  secret,  her  pain,  her  infinite  chagrin,  were  not  to  be 
told  in  the  hearing  of  any  mortal ;  she  sometimes  caught 
herself  wishing  that  she  were  a  Catholic  and  could  pour  all 
into  the  ear  of  a  confessor.  Then  she  would"  laugh  with 
scorn  of  such  an  impulse,  though  the  laugh  was  one  of  those 
terrible  silences  which  the  silence  of  a  tortured  soul  can 
alone  echo  back.  This  infatuate  choice,  in  its  eager  trend, 
meant  the  single  sentiment  of  a  woman  who  had  never 
known  one  gleam  of  similar  feeling  heretofore.  She  could 
never  have  made  the  marriage  for  money  and  place  that  she 
had  made,  if  love  like  this  had  ruled  her  in  the  past.  Since 
her  widowhood  she  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  passion  and 
breathed  its  dizzying  breath.  In  those  other  days  she  had 
thought  Hubert  a  merefloseur  for  literary  distinction,  a  man 
whose  foreground  (as  the  world  pictorially  saw  it)  was 
assumed  modesty,  and  whose  sole  background  was  the  raw 
flamboyance  of  wealth.  One  chance  meeting  had  changed 
her  to  the  core.  She  had  afterward  read  his  two  books  of 
verse  and  had  told  herself  that  they  were  factors  in  the  al- 
terative process.  But  this  had  already  happened,  and  more- 
over hers  was  not  a  temperament  that  the  rhythm  and  lilt  of 
poetry  could  stir ;  she  had  no  nerve-cells  that  vibrated  to 
such  impression  ;  life  and  she  were  bound  together  only  by 
the  hard  cords  of  prose. 

Angela  went  back  to  Ogdensburg,  where  her  father  had 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  13 

by  this  time  discovered  that  his  scheme  of  quick  self-enrich- 
ment was  air,  and  had  begun  to  plan  another  which  would 
be  earth  itself  for  impregnable  solidity.  The  girl  had 
begged  Hubert  to  wait  a  little  while  before  he  followed 
her.  Shame  was  at  the  root  of  this  entreaty  ;  she  invented 
some  excuse  for  the  delay,  but  in  reality  it  had  been  im- 
posed because  she  was  fearful  lest  affairs  at  home  were 
harshly  embarrassed.  This  proved  to  be  the  case.  Her 
father,  who  had  managed  to  educate  his  motherless  child, 
now  lacked  the  means  of  decently  supporting  her.  But  he 
had  hopes  ;  he  was  going  to  redeem  the  failure  of  one  enter- 
prise by  the  splendid  success  of  another.  Angela  smiled 
drearily  as  she  listened ;  she  wondered,  while  she  recol- 
lected his  former  hap-hazard  career,  how  he  had  ever  con- 
trived to  pay  for  her  past  tuition  as  a  boarding  pupil  at 
Madame  Charnier's.  But  he  had  done  so ;  perhaps  he 
would  contrive  to  get  on  his  feet  again  now,  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  since  she  had  known  him  and  filially  loved  him. 
A  sense  of  commingled  dread  and  dilicacy  forbade  her  from 
writing  Hubert  the  word  that  would  bring  him  at  hot  speed 
to  Ogdensburg.  A  like  sense  made  her  conceal  from  her 
father  the  fact  that  she  was  engaged  to  a  very  rich  man  in 
New  York.  If  she  told  him  now,  at  this  epoch  of  financial 
jeopardy,  what  mortifying  attitude  of  debtor  toward  Hubert 
might  he  not  swiftly  assume  ?  "  No,  no,"  she  said  to  her 
own  anxious  heart.  "  I  will  wait  until  papa  rights  himself 
once  more.  It  would  kill  me  to  have  Hubert  come  here 
and  find  us  almost  at  straits,  like  this,  for  our  daily 
food." 

But  even  then  she  sent  Mrs.  Averill  a  full  account  of  all 
her  sharp  worriments.  "  I  trust  you  in  every  way,"  her 
letters  ran.  "  Say  nothing  to  him.  We  are  getting  along, 
but  oh,  how  different  it  all  is  from  your  sumptuous  and 
lovely  little  home  !  " 

Mrs.  Averill  sent  her  the  kindest  of  responses,  and  a  gift 
of  money  as  well.  The  latter  came  opportunely  indeed. 


14  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  What  a  generous  heart  Alva  has  !  "  her  friend  thought. 
"  Thank  Heaven,  I  can  repay  her  soon.  There  must  be  one, 
of  two  ways,  either  papa's  rise  or  my  marriage." 

But  destiny  had  given  the  cards  of  Lottimer  Laight  a  final 
disastrous  shuffle.  Far  from  rising  again,  he  sank  as  his 
child  had  never  seen  him  sink  before.  He  had  always  had 
the  most  exquisite  manners ;  he  was  the  sort  of  man  who 
prides  himself  upon  being  a  gentleman  even  while  con- 
cerned in  transactions  of  plebeian  dinginess ;  it  was  lucky 
for  Angela  that  she  did  not  know  just  how  the  expenses  of 
her  schooling  had  been  defrayed,  but  had  accepted  "  papa  " 
during  girlhood  with  a  reverence  remote  from  the  faintest 
heresy.  She  rarely  saw  him  then  without  he  had  on  a  pair  of 
neat  gloves  and  wore  a  flower  or  two  in  his  button-hole. 
But  now  it  was  quite  different ;  his  dandyism  had  evapo- 
rated ;  his  handsome  face,  with  its  gray,  martial  moustache 
and  hopeful  blue  eyes,  had  a  drawn,  scared  look,  as  though 
the  ghosts  of  the  three  or  four  fortunes  that  he  had  made 
away  with  were  whispering  uncanny  rebukes  in  his  mental 
ear.  One  day  he  spoke  to  Angela  in  sharp  rage,  and 
without  a  shred  of  reason  for  doing  so.  He  walked  from  the 
room  muttering  oddly  to  himself,  and  with  the  last  glimpse 
that  she  caught  of  his  face  her  pain  swiftly  altered  to  alarm. 
His  brain  was  already  rocking  to  its  fall,  and  in  a  day  or 
two  the  collapse  came.  It  brought  a  helpless  imbecility 
and  not  the  more  cruel  curse  of  dementia  that  Angela  had 
been  dreading.  At  the  first  tidings  of  the  calamity  Hubert 
hurried  to  Ogdensburg.  The  shame  of  Angela  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  ecstasy  as  they  fell  into  one  another's  arms. 

She  told  him  everything,  then,  without  a  shadow  of 
reserve.  She  let  him  see  to  just  how  shabby  a  pass  poverty 
had  brought  her  father  and  herself.  Hubert,  pierced  with 
disgust  at  what  he  rated  as  his  own  dulness,  clamored  for  an 
immediate  marriage.  Afterward,  he  fervently  told  Angela, 
they  two  could  watch  beside  her  father  together,  and  he 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  15 

would  have  the  right  to  offer  that  glad  assistance  which  his 
future  wife  now  shrank  from  receiving. 

But  within  the  very  hour  that  Hubert  made  his  passionate 
plea,  one  who  had  learned  of  his  departure  for  Ogdensburg 
and  who  had  boldly  decided  on  the  step  of  following  him, 
presented  herself  before  Angela.  This,  it  need  hardly  be 
recorded,  was  Alva  Averill.  The  bewildered  and  hesitating 
girl  sprang  toward  her  sudden  guest  with  a  cry  of  grateful 
delight.  Bewilderment  and  hesitation  thenceforth  ceased  to 
be  her  own  concern.  "  What  shall  I  do,  Alva  ?  "  she  broke 
forth  forlornly.  "  Poor  papa  is  dying,  and  yet  it  may  take 
him  weeks,  months,  to  die.  Hubert  is  here,  and  begs  me  to 
become  his  wife  now — in  a  few  hours,  or  at  best  a  day. 
Ought  I  to  consent  ?  Advise  me  !  I  leave  it  all  to  you !  " 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  step,"  said  Mrs.  Averill.  "  Wait ; 
I  am  here  with  you  now.  I  will  help  you ;  it's  right  enough 
that  I  should.  Wait,  I  say.  Trust  all  to  me.  You  and  he 
have  a  lifetime  before  you.  Think  only  of  your  father  for 
the  present.  Settling  a  few  unpaid  bills  can't  mean  much 
for  me,  Angela ;  why  should  it  ?  Besides,  to  appease  your 
sensitiveness,  I'll  jot  down  a  full  account,  which  you  can 
make  good  to  me  aferward  if  so  disposed." 

"  Oh,  Alva !  how  sweet  of  you ! " 

Angela's  tears  were  flowing.  She  kissed  the  cheek  of  the 
new-comer  again  and  again.  She  was  clinging  about  her 
friend's  neck  in  her  gratitude,  her  misery.  Mrs.  Averill, 
though  responding  by  little  pats  of  her  gloved  hands  to  these 
caresses,  had  swept  her  gaze  about  the  cheerless  room.  In 
another  minute  she  had  summoned  her  maid,  whom  she  had 
brought  with  her  and  who  stood  in  discreet  retirement. 

"  Gilberte,"  she  instructed,  "  go  and  tell  the  lady  who 
keeps  this  house  to  come  to  me.  You  understand." 

Gilberte  understood  and  obeyed.  She  was  one  of  those 
keen  young  Frenchwomen  whose  errors  of  service  are  few, 
and  who  can  speak  English  with  a  lucidity  that  transcends 
idiom. 


1 6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

A  little  later  Mrs.  Averill  held  a  talk  with  the  keeper  of 
the  house.  On  one  side,  at  least,  it  was  a  mollifying  confer- 
ence, and  several  new  bank-notes  crackled  crisply  before  its 
end.  Still  later,  Hubert  and  his  cousin  spoke  together. 
During  their  converse,  new  wraps  and  pillows  and  other 
means  of  bringing  comfort  to  a  sick-room  were  being  carried 
past  them  to  the  near  -bedside  of  Mr.  Laight.  "  No,"  Mrs. 
Averill  was  saying,  "  her  place,  Hubert,  is  where  her  father 
lies.  You  must  bear  that  in  mind.  Remember,  she  has 
friends  in  New  York,  whatever  they  might  say  here  in  this 
dull  little  settlement.  Let  me  prove  her  friend  now ;  you 
can  be  that,  and  more,  to-morrow — whenever  to-morrow 
really  comes." 

Hubert  acquiesced.  He  had  never  liked  Alva  Averill  so 
much  as  at  this  period,  when  he  watched  her,  intelligent, 
patient,  aidful,  apparently  thinking  of  his  Angela's  weal,  and 
that  alone.  Mr.  Laight  lingered  on  between  life  and  death ; 
to-day  he  rallied  a  little ;  the  next  day  he  was  in  the  gloom 
of  deathly  threat;  again  he  would  show  signs  of  spurious 
recovery. 

It  was  now  April.  Mrs.  Averill  had  remained  with  the 
sick  man  and  the  two  lovers,  a  model  of  gentle  fortitude  and 
sympathy.  Her  purse  was  the  support  of  Angela  and  the 
dying  man.  When  Hubert  and  his  fiancee  had  their  tender 
meetings,  her  conduct  was  that  which  a  very  goddess  of  dis- 
cretion might  have  approved.  "  I  once  believed  that  woman 
had  a  cold  heart,"  Hubert  said  to  Angela ;  "  I  see  how  I 
wronged  her.  Friendship  and  self-sacrifice  couldn't  come 
much  closer  to  one  another  than  they've  come  in  her  present 
conduct." 

"  Indeed,  no !  "  Angela  replied.  "  There  was  never  a 
more  devoted  friend  than  Alva  is.  To  leave  her  charming 
home  and  all  her  gay  town-life  for  weeks,  just  that  she  may 
be  near  me  !  It  is  something  to  vibrate  through  one's  entire 
lifetime." 

"  It  teaches  me  a  lesson,"  said  Hubert.     "  What  is  easier 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  17 

than  to  misjudge  our  fellow-creatures,  and  how  wantonly 
we're  forever  doing  it !  We  are  all  like  a  lot  of  mountebanks 
behind  an  illuminated  sheet.  The  uncouth  shadows  we  cast 
there  are  the  world's  misrepresentations  of  us." 

"  But  we  in  turn  are  a  part  of  that  very  world,"  smiled 
Angela.  "  Oh,  yes ;  it's  give  and  take." 

During  early  April  Mr.  Laight  painlessly  breathed  his  last. 
He  was  a  man  who  had  outlived  all  except  the  coarser  asso- 
ciations ;  he  ranked  with  those  untoward  beings  who  appear 
to  drop  out  of  life  as  deserters  from  an  army,  and  to  take 
death  in  the  form  of  punishment  rather  than  reprieve.  It 
would  have  been  idle  to  bury  him  from  the  huge  city  where 
many  a  friend  of  his  untarnished  days  would  simply  have  had 
the  option  of  refusing  to  attend  his  funeral.  So  he  was 
quietly  buried  from  Ogdensburg,  and  no  doubt  made  more 
than  a  single  such  contemporary  privately  grateful  for  being 
spared  the  need  of  deciding  whether  to  go  or  remain  away. 

As  soon  as  the  funeral  was  over,  Angela  and  Mrs.  Averill 
returned  to  New  York,  accompanied  by  Hubert.  A  mar- 
riage had  been  talked  of  for  the  last  day  of  April.  It  would 
of  course  be  very  quiet.  Hubert  was  tenderly  imperative 
about  waiting  longer  than  the  first  of  June  at  the  furthest. 
But,  as  it  turned  out,  he  had  been  forced  to  wait  on  indefi- 
nitely, with  an  almost  suicidal  anguish  at  his  heart  in  place 
of  the  hope  that  once  nestled  there,  like  a  viper  coiling  in 
the  same  nest  where  a  bird  has  brooded ! 

During  her  former  stay  in  New  York  with  Mrs.  Averill, 
Angela  had  received  an  offer  of  marriage  from  Mr.  Bleakly 
Voght,  a  gentleman  almost  thrice  her  years.  Bleakly 
Voght  had  long  ago  been  accepted  as  one  whose  bachelor- 
hood was  a  crystal  fact  that  resisted  all  the  undermining 
erosions  of  gossip.  He  was  tall,  gaunt,  almost  bloodlessly 
pale,  with  a  beetling  nose,  a  pair  of  small,  restless  gray 
eyes,  and  a  temper  of  notorious  violence.  But  the  attribute 
just  named  would  flash  and  flare  like  the  ebullitions  of  a 
hidden  fire  that  only  now  and  then  broke  bounds.  He 


I  S  DIVIDED  LIVES, 

could  be  suave  enough  when  he  chose,  and  he  chose  very 
often.  Notwithstanding  his  ugliness,  which  was  distinct,  he 
had  the  repute  of  a  man  who  could  exert  at  will  strong  fasci- 
nation over  women.  It  had  been  affirmed  of  him  that  his 
unhappy  exterior  had  formed  his  ablest  means  of  amatory 
attack ;  he  was  understood  to  have  achieved  the  adroitest  of 
his  memorable  conquests  chiefly  through  the  tactics  of  sur- 
prise. Excessively  rich,  and  with  a  name  that  had  in  its 
very  sound  the  memory  of  past  patrician  leadership,  he  fre- 
quented circles  where  caste  throve  at  a  degree  of  the  hardi- 
est insolence,  feared  by  some  people,  truckled  to  by  others, 
disliked  by  many,  and  treated  deferentially  by  all.  Those 
who  hated  him  with  the  most  acute  zest  envied  the  gloss  and 
chic  of  his  brougham  ;  those  who  resented  most  stoutly  the 
autocracy  and  assumption  of  his  bearing  recognized  the 
dainty  excellence  of  his  dinners.  We  would  say  of  a  Lon- 
don man  placed  as  Voght  was  that  he  belonged  to  all  the 
best  clubs ;  but  in  New  York  the  best  clubs  mean  only  two 
or  three,  and  to  these  he  not  only  belonged  but  was  a  gov- 
ernor of  one  of  them.  In  every  sense  a  spoiled  child  of 
fortune,  he  bore  himself  at  nearly  all  times  with  imperious 
caprice.  If  he  had  been  less  the  slave  of  codes  he  might 
have  tried  to  set  loud  and  quaint  fashions  in  attire ;  but  con- 
ventionalism had  him  in  too  firm  a  grip  for  that.  As  it  was, 
he  dressed  ill  enough  to  have  been  the  object  of  his  tailor's 
clandestine  hate ;  you  never  saw  his  lank  figure  that  its 
angles  were  not  accentuated  by  misfits  ;  even  his  shirt-front, 
when  he  was  clad  for  the  evening,  made  a  salient,  untidy 
bulge ;  a  feminine  critic  of  him  had  once  freezingly  said  that 
there  was  comfort  in  knowing  he  drew  the  line  at  cleanli- 
ness. Years  ago  he  had  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  a 
parti  who  could  marry  just  as  he  pleased,  and  now,  in  the 
grayness  of  declining  lustihood,  he  preserved  the  same  con- 
viction. It  was  by  no  means  a  baseless  one.  Despite  cer- 
tain ugly  tales  of  his  irascibility,  and  others  that  bore  upon 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  \  g 

immoral  escapades  both  here  and  in  Europe,  he  remained  a 
popular  favorite  of  secure  repute  for  wit,  tact,  and  the  art  of 
amusing. 

Only  a  little  while  before  he  had  become  acquainted  with 
Angela  it  had  been  more  than  whispered  that  he  might  one 
day  wed  Mrs.  Averill.  This  report  had  never  possessed  the 
least  foundation.  Mrs.  Averill,  with  her  copious  income 
and  her  enviable  visiting-book,  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  marrying  her  footman  as  Bleakly  Voght.  She  knew 
very  well,  however,  that  he  would  still  have  been  deemed  a 
judicious  match  for  any  woman,  and  when  he  told  her,  with 
anger  making  him  rather  ludicrous  than  pitiable,  that 
Angela  Laight  had  refused  him,  she  was  rendered  speech- 
less by  the  girl's  incredible  folly.  There  had  always  been 
something  about  Angela  that  had  caused  her  friend  to  seem 
tiresomely  cloud-wrapped,  idealistic,  and  puritaine.  But 
that  Lottimer  Laight's  daughter  should  have  refused  a  hus- 
band like  Bleakly  Voght  passed  Mrs.  Averill's  understand- 
ing. She  understood  a  short  while  after,  however,  and  but 
too  clearly. 

When  Angela's  engagement  to  Hubert  Throckmorton 
was  announced,  Bleakly  Voght's  dismay  and  humiliation 
were  no  less  intense  than  juvenile.  He  at  once  sailed  for 
Europe,  after  having  held  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Averill 
that  showed  him  in  hues  as  comic  as  they  were  contempt- 
ible. He  had  always  despised  Hubert,  to  whom  he  would 
allude  as  "that  poet,"  quite  in  a  manner  which  indicated 
that  he  regarded  poet  and  fool  as  interchangeable  terms. 
And  now  that  the  girl  he  had  honored  by  the  offer  of  his 
hand  should  have  refused  him  for  a  sentimental  scribbler 
like  this,  who  might,  truly  enough,  be  a  few  years  younger 
than  himself,  but  who  had  not  so  big  a  fortune  by  at  least  a 
million  of  dollars — it  transcended  credence  ! 

The  coarse  and  hard  materialism  of  the  man  never  made 
a  fitter  background  for  his  vanity  than  when  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Averill,  in  prolonged  splenetic  snarl : 


20  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  Why,  confound  it,  I  struggled  against  offering  myself  to 
the  girl,  and  only  gave  in  because  I  thought  it  would  be  mean 
of  me  to  punish  her  for  faults  that  she  hadn't  committed. 
Still,  family's  family,  and  blood's  blood.  And  I'm  .  .  ."  He 
shut  both  eyes  for  an  instant  and  shook  his  head  vehe- 
mently with  a  most  unbecoming  look  of  disgust  and  annoy- 
ance ...  "I  'm  Bleakly  Voght." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  abettingly. 
"  You've  a  right  to  feel  proud.  I'm  amazed  at  Angela. 
Still,  you  know  how  unambitious  a  girl  will  now  and  then  sur- 
prise one  by  showing  herself.  Her  eyes  might  yet  be  opened 
to  the  really  splendid  position  you  will  give  her." 

Voght  assumed  a  milder  look.  There  was  no  kind  of  per- 
sonal flattery  that  he  found  obnoxious.  You  could  have  told 
him  that  his  nose  was  ancient  Greek  instead  of  mediaeval 
Gothic,  and  he  would  have  suspected  neither  satire  nor  men- 
dacity. Mrs.  Averill  was  well  aware  of  this  foible  :  to  play 
upon  it  might  not  be  at  all  difficult. 

"  I  don't  wish  her  to  marry  me  for  whom  I  am,  but  for 
what  I  am,"  he  still  tartly  grumbled.  "  And  her  engage- 
ment's on,  now,  with  the  verse-maker.  No,  I'd  better  sail  for 
Europe  and  try  to  forget  the  cut  she's  given  me.  If  it 
hadn't  come  from  the  daughter  of  Lottimer  Laight — if  it 
had  come  from  a  woman  more  des  notres,  you  understand 
— I  might  have  stood  it  better." 

He  carried  himself  off  to  Europe  without  so  much  as  a 
good-bye  to  Angela.  What  followed  for  quite  a  long  while 
after  that  has  already  been  chronicled.  It  chanced  that  on 
her  return  with  Angela  from  Ogdensburg,  Mrs.  Averill  made 
an  immediate  discovery  which  did  not  by  any  means  annoy 
her.  They  learned  that  Bleakly  Voght  had  been  among  the 
recent  arrivals  from  Europe. 

'  Shall  I  send  for  him  ? '  she  thought,  one  evening,  while 
seated  in  the  first  of  her  two  pretty  little  drawing-rooms  and 
hearing  the  low  murmurs  of  the  lovers  float  to  her  from  be- 
yond, through  half-drawn  tapestries.  '  He  may  not  come  if  I 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  21 

do  not  send.  And  I  want  to  see  him,  somehow,  before  ..." 
Even  her  musings  became  indefinite,  just  here.  There 
seemed  no  reason  why  she  should  either  send  for  Bleakly 
Voght  or  desire  to  see  him  before  Angela  and  Hubert  were 
made  one.  She  knew  that  any  effort  on  Voght's  part  to 
break  their  engagement  would  be  futile  in  the  extreme. 
And  she  herself,  to  put  the  matter  with  all  daring  bluntness 
amid  the  secrecy  of  her  own  soul — what  lie  could  she  tell 
that  would  prove  powerful  enough  really  to  be  separative 
in  its  consequences  ? 

She  was  a  woman  who  had  thus  far  chosen  what  is  termed 
the  safe  path.  No  one  could  point  to  any  gross  duplicity 
or  treachery  of  hers ;  no  one  could  accuse  her  of  either  rank 
imprudence  or  flimsy  peccadillo.  But  her  character  had  al- 
ways been  of  the  sort  that  would  feebly  resist  any  potent 
stress  of  temptation ;  the  medium  of  such  influence  would 
have  been  a  submissive  one.  Self  had  for  years  lifted  its 
head,  like  that  of  a  little  household  Lar,  somewhere  in  the 
deepest  recesses  of  her  nature,  and  just  how  reverent  a  cult 
the  small  god  received  she  alone  could  have  told  you. 

On  the  following  day,  without  the  least  omen  to  have 
warned  her  of  its  approach,  she  found  herself  confronted  by 
a  severe  temptation.  So  suddenly  did  this  event  make  itself 
and  its  trenchant  significance  felt  to  her,  that  when  all  was 
over  and  past  she  had  something  of  the  same  sensation 
which  might  visit  some  wayfarer  stricken  by  a  terrible 
tempest,  who  raises  himself  from  the  spot  whereon  it  has 
flung  him,  and  watches  it  disappear  with  wrack  and  flash 
and  rumble  from  the  heaven  over  which  its  wrath  has  so 
fleetly  swept. 


II. 

ANGELA  came  buoyantly  into  the  house,  on  the  afternoon 
of  this  same  day. '  She  was  in  deep  mourning  for  her  father, 
and  the  dark  garb  she  wore  meant  no  mere  nominal  tribute, 
either ;  all  the  faults  of  Lottimer  Laight  had  not  weakened 
her  filial  fondness.  And  yet,  how  can  the  gloom  of  death 
prevail,  though  it  should  fight  with  battalions  of  shadows, 
against  the  sunshine  of  youth  and  love  ?  Angela  was  happy 
in  a  way  just  as  unreasoning  as  that  mood  of  the  boughs 
which  makes  them  bud :  she  could  no  more  have  explained 
to  you  why  the  future  spread  before  her  one  shining  vista  of 
welcome  than  a  stream  in  the  spring  could  declare  its 
reason  for  unsheathing  all  its  dulcet  babble  of  trebles  from 
their  winter  bonds  of  ice. 

No  hint  of  ambitious  feeling  entered  into  the  love  that  she 
bore  Hubert.  It  was  a  sentiment  founded  upon  tenets  that 
she  had  long  held,  and  to  which,  as  she  had  told  a  few  of 
her  best  friends  in  the  past,  she  would  always  most  firmly 
cling.  "  The  man  whom  I  marry,"  she  had  said,  "  must  win 
my  respect  for  him  in  two  ways  :  first,  morally,  and  second, 
mentally.  I  want  to  admire  his  character  as  noble  and  un- 
stained, and  to  see  in  his  intellect  the  superior  of  my  own. 
And  until  I  have  done  both  I  can  never  feel  as  if  I  were 
acting  rightly  even  to  love  him,  apart  from  consenting  to  be- 
come his  wife." 

It  must  be  granted  that  a  speech  like  this  has  an  ex- 
tremely priggish  sound.  Several  times  Angela  had  been 
punished  by  the  sarcastic  replies  of  her  school-mates  after 
she  had  thus  expressed  herself ;  and  once  a  truly  heartless 
reference  was  made  to  the  dingy  reputation  of  her  father, 
that  threw  her  into  a  paroxysm  of  half-rageful  tears.  Oddly 
22 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  23 

enough,  that  very  father  had  been  the  origin  of  her  rather 
grandiose  girlish  resolve.  There  are  no  parents  who  con- 
trive to  shine  so  brilliantly  in  precept  and  maxim  before 
their  children  as  those  with  careers  that  have  shown  a  re- 
verse of  rectitude. 

But  Angela  had  persevered  in  the  worship  of  her  lofty 
matrimonial  ideal.  It  is  not  maintained  that  she  would 
have  refused  to  marry  Hubert  if  he  had  failed  to  conform 
with  it.  She  had  been  in  love  with  Hubert  some  time  be- 
fore he  proposed  to  her,  and  we  know  how  fierce  an  icono- 
clast of  theories  young  love  may  become.  But  in  spite  of 
the  appeal  to  fancy  and  imagination  by  which  fashion  with 
its  pomps  and  pleasures  will  nearly  always  address  one  of 
her  impressionable  age,  she  had  felt  a  shudder  as  involun- 
tary as  it  was  covert  while  telling  Bleakly  Voght  that  she 
could  not  be  his  wife.  Hubert  stood  to  her  as  the  realiza- 
tion of  all  her  most  poetic  previous  visions.  He  was  a  poet 
himself,  and  a  little  while  after  meeting  him  she  had  come 
very  close  to  the  shedding  of  tears  over  some  of  his  pub- 
lished verses.  Possibly  she  had  been  that  worst  of  critics,  a 
person  with  a  liking  for  the  author  of  the  work  which  asks 
judgment.  No  doubt  her  verdict  upon  the  man  and  his 
poetry  had  been  alike  simultaneous  and  partisan.  But  she 
would  not  for  an  instant  have  admitted  this,  and  her  bright 
native  intelligence  was  surely  a  fair  reason  why  she  should 
have  resented  any  such  sweeping  charge. 

She  was  deeply  happy  to-day.  She  was  indeed  so  happy 
that  self-reproach  hurt  and  irked  her,  now  and  then,  in  her 
more  meditative  moments.  It  seemed,  at  these  times,  as  if 
the  exhilaration  that  was  born  of  her  coming  marriage 
pressed  with  an  insolent  profanity  upon  the  bereavement 
that  was  still  so  fresh  amid  experience.  She  could  not 
see  her  father's  image  in  the  dusky  framework  that  now 
appeared  its  rightful  surrounding.  Joy  shed  too  strong  a 
light  upon  it ;  anticipation  opposed  retrospect ;  grief  was 
driven  from  its  urn  and  willow,  for  the  first  had  become  a 


24  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

little  bubbling  fount  of  hope,  and  the  last  had  begun  to  lose 
its  funereal  droop,  as  though  at  any  minute  some  miracle  of 
magic  might  change  it  into  a  bush,  burning  with  half-opened 
rose-buds. 

She  passed  upstairs  through  the  modish  and  tasteful  hall, 
towards  her  own  apartments.  Just  as  she  reached  the  up^r 
landing  of  the  staircase,  a  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Averill 
came  out  upon  the  second  hall.  A  somewhat  ill-dressed 
woman  at  once  followed  her,  leading  a  little  child.  The 
woman  had  a  pale,  tired,  work-a-day  sort  of  face,  but  she  did 
not  look  as  if  she  were  a  month  older  than  Mrs.  Averill  her- 
self. She  had  been  pretty  once,  as  you  could  tell  at  a 
glance  ;  but  pain,  or  perhaps  toil,  had  sharpened  her  features 
and  sunken  her  cheeks,  while  the  querulous,  worried  light  in 
her  dark  eyes  bore  further  proof  of  a  lot  in  which  peace  did 
not  abide.  The  child  whose  hand  clung  to  hers  was  not 
more  than  three  years  old ;  she  had  no  beauty  beyond  that 
which  childhood  may  nearly  always  be  said  to  wear,  and  in 
the  wide  blue  gaze  of  her  uplifted  eyes  dwelt  that  innocence 
which  seems  either  to  convey  the  most  gently  magnificent 
frankness  or  else  to  hide  the  very  secret  of  the  Sphinx. 

Angela  loved  children.  "  What  great  big  eyes !  "  she  said 
playfully  to  the  little  girl,  having  passed  her  hostess  and  dear 
friend  with  a  nod  and  a  smile.  And  then  she  paused  in 
front  of  the  tiny  creature.  "  Oh ,  what  big  eyes !"  she 
went  on,  with  that  sweet  camaraderie  which  only  those  who 
are  the  born  devotees  of  children  know  how  to  use  toward 
them. 

"My  dear  Angela  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Averill,  slipping  in  a 
trice  between  herself  and  the  child,  "please  don't !  I — I 
can't  let  you  !  "  Then  she  broke  into  a  slight  hysteric  sort 
of  laugh  and  pushed  the  girl  further  along  the  hall,  away 
from  both  the  woman  and  her  child. 

Angela's  glance  swept  Mrs.  AveriU's  face.  She  saw 
that  it  was  agitated.  "  Why,  Alva  !  "  she  broke  forth,  and 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  2$ 

caught  her  friend's  wrist,  looking  at  her  intently.  But  still 
no  ray  of  suspicion  had  pierced  Angela's  mind. 

"  Will  you  go  into  my  dressing-room,  dear,  and — and 
wait  there  for  me  a  few  minutes  ?  "  Mrs.  Averill  asked.  Her 
voice  appeared  to  be  full  of  tremors.  The  door  was  near  at 
hand  and  she  unclosed  it  while  she  thus  spoke,  and  then 
motioned  for  Angela  to  enter.  The  girl  did  so ;  but,  as  she 
crossed  the  threshold  she  half  turned  toward  Mrs.  Averill. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you  here,  of  course,  Alva.  But  you  seem  as 
if  something  dreadful  had  happened." 

"  Something  dreadful  has  happened,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Oh,  Alva !  Tell  me !  Not  Hubert  !  You  don't 
mean — " 

"  I  mean  that  he  is  alive,  and  well  enough.  Nothing  has 
happened  to  him,  except —  " 

"  Except !  "    the  alarmed  girl  once  more  shot  in. 

"  That  woman  has  come  here  with  her  child,  Angela. 
She  has  found  out  that  you  and  I  are  friends.  She  came  to 
tell  me  that  she  .  .  .  that  the  child  .  .  .  But  no ;  I'll  not 
say  another  syllable  on  the  subject  until  I've  talked  a  little 
more  with  her.  Pray  keep  inside  this  room,  dear,  and  wait 
till  I  rejoin  you  here ;  I'll  do  so  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can." 

Left  alone,  Angela  sank  into  a  chair,  and  wondered  how 
sudden  attacks  of  madness  came  on,  and  whether  Mrs. 
Averill  were  not  incontestably  mad,  and  whether  she  her- 
self ought  not  to  take  other  measures  than  these  of  a  pas- 
sive kind.  To  doubt  Hubert  was  like  doubting  the  sun  in 
heaven  .  .  .  Still,  what  was  this  chilly,  creeping  sensation 
in  the  region  of  her  heart  ?  Might  such  a  horrid  thing,  after 
all,  be  true  ?  No,  no  !  A  million  noes !  .  .  And  yet  a 
pretty  little  clock  on  the  mantel,  with  two  gilt  cupids  that 
were  quarrelling  for  the  possession  of  time's  hour-glass, 
began  to  tick  :  "  Might  it  be  true  ?  Might  it  ?  Might  it  ?  "  till 
Angela  was  on  the  verge,  three  or  four  times,  of  rushing 
from  the  room  in  which  Mrs.  Averill  had  left  her. 

A  drop  of  ink  will  cloud  a  gobletful  of  the  most  crystalline 


26  DIVIDED  LIVES, 

water.  As  yet  Angela  had  heard  scarcely  anything  against 
the  man  she  loved ;  but  what  she  did  hear  had  been  an  in- 
nuendo just  keen  and  subtle  enough  to  waken  the  dormant 
devil  that  has  its  lair  deep  down  in  every  lover's  heart. 

At  last  Mrs.  Averill  came  back.  Her  olive  face  was  a 
picture  of  misery,  and  for  a  little  while  all  but  the  most 
dejointed  speech  appeared  to  fail  her. 

"  It — it  is  true,  my  poor  Angela  1 "  were  the  first  cred- 
itably coherent  words  that  she  spoke.  "  She  came  here  in 
the  hope  that  I  would  do  something  to  prevent  the  marriage 
between  you  and  Hubert." 

"  Ah — that  was  it  ?  "  murmured  Angela,  who  had  grown 
deathly  white  to  her  lips. 

"  Yes.  She  thinks  he . .  he  owes  marriage  to  her  .  .  on  the 
child's  account,  you  know,  if  not  for  any  other  reason.  She 
does  not  seem  at  all  like  a  hardened  person.  I  dare  say 
that  circumstance  has  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  her  sin- 
ful behavior.  She  says  that  her  father,  whom  she  loved 
dearly,  was  lost  at  sea  while  she  needed  his  care  and  sup- 
port, and  that  she  never  remembers  having  had  a  mother. 
Oh,  Angela,  it  looks  as  though  he  were  far  more  blamable 
than  she.  Forgive  me  for  saying  that,  my  dear,  but — " 

"  Forgive  you  ?  "  cried  Angela,  with  a  flash  from  the  blue- 
gray  eyes  that  now  seemed  to  burn  black  because  of  her 
great  pallor.  "  Why  should  I  have  any  cause  to  forgive  you, 
Alva  ? "  A  shudder  passed  through  her  frame  as  she  hur- 
ried on  :  "  I — I  feel  as  if  there  were  no  power  in  my  heart 
to  do  anything  but  despise  him"  She  sank  into  a  chair 
after  thus  speaking ;  both  hands  fell  at  her  sides  and  hung 
down  as  if  quite  effortless.  Her  mouth  quivered  once  or 
twice,  but  her  fixed  eyes  gathered  no  tears ;  they  grew 
glassy  instead,  and  this  change  in  them,  blending  with  her 
complete  absence  of  color,  gave  her  the  look  of  one  who 
might  at  any  instant  either  swoon  or  die. 

"  Angela,"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  stooping  over  her,  "  will 
you  not  see  this  woman  ? " 


•        DIVIDED  LIVES.  2? 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  slight  negative  motion  of  the 
head.  "  No,  you  have  seen  her.  That  is  enough." 

41  But,  Angela,"  urged  her  companion,  "  it  Will  be  best  for 
you  to  speak  with  her,  you  know,  and  make  perfectly  sure 
that  what  she  says  is  true." 

The  girl  rose,  then,  and  a  new  energy  revealed  itself  in 
her  manner.  "  You  are  right,"  she  cried.  "  What  a  fool  I 
have  been  !  This  woman  may  have  lied  in  the  most  horri- 
ble way  ;  we  will  go  to  her,  Alva.  I  have  heard  of  such 
impostors  before  now  ;  have  not  you  ? " 

"  Yes.  But  she  is  not — "  Here  Mrs.  Averill  checked 
herself. 

A  great  sigh  left  the  other.  "  I  see.  You  believe  that 
she  tells  the  truth." 

The  two  were  standing  close  together,  now.  Mrs. 
Averill  had  put  one  arm  round  Angela's  waist.  Suddenly 
she  drew  it  away  and  seemed  searching  for  something  in 
the  pocket  of  her  dress.  "  Here  "  she  said,  "  is  a  likeness  of 
him  which  the  poor  creature  had  hidden  in  her  bosom. 
You  see,  it  is  no  proof  that  she  is  not  an  impostor ;  it  is 
only  a  rather  old-fashioned  locket,  with  a  common  photo- 
graph set  behind  the  inside  glass.  But  she  did  not  even 
produce  it  until  I  had  asked  her  whether  she  could  give  me 
any  real  evidence  Of  her  assertions." 

Angela  scanned  for  a  moment  what  the  locket  contained, 
and  then  handed  it  back  to  Mrs.  Averill.  Her  tones  were 
placid,  but  they  breathed  of  despair.  "  No  one  should  be 
convicted  on  such  proof  as  this,"  she  said.  And  now  her 
voice  slightly  broke,  her  lips  trembled,  her  head  drooped. 
"  If — if  the  woman  could  show  a  letter  from  him,"  she 
faltered. 

"A  letter  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Averill.  "She  has  a  package 
of  them,  or  says  that  she  has." 

Angela  stifled  a  sob.  They  stood  looking  at  one  another 
for  a  few  seconds  ;  Mrs.  Averill's  eyes,  as  the  half-distracted 
girl  met  them,  seemed  to  brim  with  an  exquisite  sympathy. 


28  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  Oh,  Aiva,"  came  the  abrupt  cry,  "  if  you  would  get  her 
to  show  you  these  letters,  and — and  then  judge  for  yourself ! 
Will  you  do  this  much  more  to  serve  me,  Alva  ? — you,  who 
have  done  so  much  already  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything  to  serve  you,  my  dear !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Averill.  "  But  suppose  I  go  to  this  woman's  home 
and  see  those  letters  ?  Unless  you  have  seen  them  with 
your  own  eyes,  how  can  you  feel  certain  I  have  not  been  in 
error  ?  I  know  that  you  trust  me,  and  yet  .  .  ." 

"  I  trust  you  in  all  things  ! "  broke  from  Angela  ;  and  she 
threw  both  arms  about  the  neck  of  her  friend.  "  Should  I 
presume  not  to  trust  you  after  all  that  I  owe  you  ? — all  that 
you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

"  Hush,  darling  !  that  was  nothing." 

"  It  was  devotion  I  should  despise  myself  if  I  forgot ! 
And  this  will  be  devotion  just  as  great,  if  you  will  only  con- 
sent to  show  it." 

"  There  is  none,  Angela,  that  I  would  not  show,  provided  I 
had  the  power." 

"  Bless  you  for  saying  so,  Alva  !  .  .  .  I  leave  all  to  you. 
The — the  thought  of  going  coldly  to  work,  myself,  and 
finding  him  guilty  is  so  horrible  a.  one  !  It  will  be  bad 
enough  to  know  it  hereafter — as  perhaps  I  must !  .  „  ." 

She  did  know  it,  in  about  two  hours  from  then.  She  had 
promised  Mrs.  Averill  that  she  would  under  no  conditions 
permit  Hubert  to  see  her  if  he  should  present  himself  while 
her  friend  was  away.  But  Hubert  did  not  present  himself 
hat  afternoon  ;  he  was  looking  forward  to  a  long,  divine 
tete-ci-tete  in  the  evening. 

When  he  did  make  his  appearance  at  Mrs.  A ve rill's  door, 
he  was  told  that  neither  this  lady  nor  Miss  Laight  was  at 
home.  "  Not  at  home  !  "  he  repeated,  in  pained  amazement 
to  the  footman  who  had  opened  the  door.  "  And  no  word 
was  left  for  me  if  I  called  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

Wanting  to  ask  more  questions,  but  fearing  lest  he  might 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


29 


appear  ridiculously  love-sick  to  the  servant,  he  took  his 
departure. 

That  same  evening,  on  his  return  home,  he  found  a  letter 
from  Angela  awaiting  him.  He  reeled  as  he  read  it.  It 
broke  their  engagement,  without  giving  the  least  reason  for 
such  action.  It  desired  him  never  willingly  to  look  on  her 
face  again,  as  she  meant  never  willingly  to  look  on  his. 
She  wished  him  all  happiness  hereafter.  She  brought  no 
accusation  against  him.  It  was  true,  the  change  in  her  had 
been  a  sudden  one ;  but  on  that  account  it  was  none  the 
less  radical.  All  was  at  an  end.  She  begged  him  to 
remember  this  fact,  and  not  permit  the  faintest  doubt  to 
disturb  his  complete  certainty  of  it. 

There  are  no  such  fools  as  lovers.  If  so  sweeping  and 
dumfounding  a  letter  had  been  sent  him  in  relation  to  any 
other  question  of  his  daily  existence  except  that  most  vital 
one  of  his  love  for  Angela  Laight,  Hubert  would  have 
striven  to  probe  and  dissipate  the  mystery  by  every  common- 
sense  means  in  his  scope  of  search.  But  now  he  passed  a 
night  of  wakeful  agony  and  arose  with  only  a  vague  inten- 
tion of  making  direct,  stringent  appeal  to  her  who  had 
thus  flung  so  abrupt  and  black  a  shadow  across  his  life. 

He  compromised  with  his  own  bleeding  pride,  that  next 
morning,  and  went  again  to  the  Madison  Avenue  house, 
asking  for  Mrs.  .Averill. 

She  was  at  home.  "  My  unhappy  Hubert,"  she  said,  as 
she  entered  the  room  where  he  waited  for  her. 

"You — you  know,  then,  about  that  letter?"  he  stam- 
mered, pale  and  forlorn  of  mien. 

"Yes."  She  nodded  several  times  in  quick  succession, 
gazing  down  at  the  carpet.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  their  dusk  pupils  (which  he  had  once 
thought  devoid  of  all  the  softer  feminine  beams)  were  melt- 
ing with  pitiful  emotion. 

"  Angela  told  me  she  had  written  you,"  came  the  next 
words. 


3O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

11  Ah  !  she  told  you  ?  "  he  sharply  inquired. 
'"Yes." 

"  Pray,  did  she  tell  you  the  monstrous  treachery  that  letter 
implied  ?  " 

Alva  Averill  toyed  with  one  of  the  front  buttons  of  a 
dark-blue  cloth  dress  that  fitted  her  neat,  svelte  figure  like  a 
glove.  "  I  wonder  if  you  ever  thought — you  men  are  so 
stupid  about  thinking  things,  Hubert,  where  it  concerns  a 
woman  you're  fond  of — that  Angela  is  ...  ambitious." 

"  Ambitious ! " 

She  smiled,  very  sadly,  yet  with  a  smile  full  enough  to 
show  the  white  glisten  of  her  even  teeth.  "  My  dear  Hu- 
bert, I  suppose  you  know  that  Bleakly  Voght  cared  for  her." 

"  Bleakly  Voght !     Yes— well,  and  if  he  did,  or  does  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  it !  He  not  only  did,  but  does.  He's 
back  from  Europe,  and  ..." 

"  My  God  !  Alva,  you  don't  mean — ?  " 

Mrs.  Averill  gave  a  short,  melancholy  laugh.  "  I  mean," 
she  said,  "  that  he's  back  from  Europe." 

"And  .  .  and  .  .  it's  tie?"  Hubert  gasped,  recoiling, 
with  his  face  full  of  horror. 

Mrs.  Averill  laughed  again — this  time  with  a  great  gentle- 
ness and  an  equally  great  sombreness.  "  Bleakly  Voght  is 
a  man  who  has  always  been  said  to  possess  a  curious  influ- 
ence over  women  .  .  .  And  then  he  is  an  exceeedingly 
rich  man  .  .  a  good  deal  richer  than  you  are,  Hubert  .  . 
Don't  ask  me  for  the  real  facts  in  the  case  ;  I  positively  do 
not  know  them.  But  he  has  been  here  to  see  Angela  since 
his  return  ..." 

"  He  has  been  here  ! " 

"  Yes — two  or  three  times.  I  think  three  times  in  all — 
Why,  Hubert,  you're  ill !  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  said. 

He  had  staggered  backward  and  almost  fallen  into  an 
arm-chair  just  behind  him.  He  was  wiping  from  his  color- 
less face  a  few  drops  of  sweat  that  had  gathered  there. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  3  I 

In  another  second,  however,  he  had  sprung  to  his  feet 
again. 

"I'm  all  right,  Alva — it's  nothing,"  he  exclaimed,  not 
knowing  what  a  queer  ring  his  voice  had.  "  Bleakly  Voght, 
eh  ?  It's  nothing  .  .  .  I'm  quite  myself,  now.  A  shock, 
you  know — a  sharp  shock  .  .  We  men  have  our  nerves,  at 
times,  just  as  you  women  have  .  .  .  ."  And  then  he  laughed 
shortly.  If  the  laugh  had  been  a  wild  cry  of  grief,  it  would 
have  had  far  less  odd  a  sound. 

A  little  while  after  that  he  had  left  the  house  and  had 
never  sought  again  to  see  Angela.  He  had  felt  no  surprise 
on  learning  that  she  would  marry  Bleakly  Voght.  Mrs. 
Averill  had  prepared  him  for  such  tidings.  They  got 
abroad,  and  two  or  three  of  his  friends  came  to  him  with 
eyes  grown  saucer-like  from  consternation.  In  the  re- 
pressed delirium  of  that  woful  week,  Hubert  could  ill  pre- 
vent himself  from  insulting  replies.  "  Trap  de  zele,  mon 
vieux"  he  recalled  murmuring  on  one  occasion ;  and  as  he 
afterward  walked  away,  no  doubt  the  stern,  strained  look 
that  he  wore  accentuated  his  irony.  For  seven  days  all 
sorts  of  mad  ideas  transiently  ruled  him.  One  was  to  find 
a  means  of  forcing  Voght  into  a  duel ;  another  was  to  sting 
his  face  with  a  horsewhip  in  the  public  street ;  and  still  an- 
other was  even  savage  enough  to  take  the  form  of  dreaming 
about  a  double  assassination.  But  after  all,  in  spite  of  his 
excessive  suffering,  Hubert  was  a  true  child  of  his  century ; 
and  that  has  not  only  given  crime  a  scientific  explanation, 
but  has  vulgarized  it  lamentably. 

When  the  news  of  the  marriage  came  to  him,  he  experi- 
enced a  certain  relief.  It  was  the  same  sensation  as  that 
which  comes  to  mourners  when  their  dead  has  been  placed 
under  ground,  and  all  excitement  and  suspense  have  given 
place  to  the  dreary  anticipation  of  going  home  and  staring 
at  an  empty  chair. 


32  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Hubert,  as  we  know,  had  taken  the  train  for  Ponchatuk. 
His  house  there  was  a  homestead,  rambling,  spacious,  and 
American  enough  to  have  been  built  years  ago  in  the  heart 
of  New  England,  with  her  most  beauteous  hills  at  either 
hand,  instead  of  here  on  the  ugliest  portion  of  a  huge  sand- 
bank called  Long  Island.  Still,  on  the  lawns  of  breezy- 
Locustwood,  twilight  deepened  into  night  with  a  lovely  ten- 
derness of  gradation.  When  the  stars  had  filled  the 
heavens  with  their  white  throngs,  Hubert  looked  up  at  them, 
and  the  thought  came  to  him  of  what  a  mite  our  one  little 
world  is,  and  what  lesser  mites  are  we  that  fret  and  strut 
upon  it.  How  did  it  matter  to  some  of  those  gigantic  and 
glorious  creatures  who  may  inhabit  the  splendid  continents 
of  Saturn,  whether  or  no  a  particular  female  atom  here  on 
earth  had  jilted  a  second  male  atom  for  a  third  that  had 
more  mean,  wee  dollars  to  pride  itself  on  ?  Feeling  the  poe- 
try wake  and  stir  in  his  heart,  he  wondered  if  he  would  ever 
write  another  line  while  he  lived.  Then  he  answered  his 
own  surmise  with  a  no,  that  seemed  solemn  enough  to  be 
the  sound  of  all  mortal  anguish  since  men  began.  And 
then,  unconscious  of  his  own  egotism,  even  while  he  had 
just  been  bowing  his  spirit  before  the  enormity  of  the  infi- 
nite, he  passed  indoors  with  loitering  steps  and  lowered 
head. 

Some  letters,  newly-arrived  by  a  late  mail,  were  on  a  table 
in  the  hall.  He  had  given  orders  that  his  letters  should  be 
sent  here  ;  and  now,  as  he  stood  and  glanced  at  them,  he 
had  not  the  energy  to  do  more  than  pass  his  eye  over  their 
superscriptions.  Just  above  the  table  gleamed  a  portrait  of 
his  dead  father ;  at  this  moment  he  chanced  to  lift  his  head 
and  meet  the  well-remembered  face,  gazing  out  at  him 
through  mellow  lamplight  from  the  canvas  on  which  a 
skilled  artist  had  painted  it  with  Rembrandtesque  power; 
there  seemed  to  him  an  expression  of  earnest,  brooding  so- 
licitude on  those  familiar  features ;  he  started  backward  al- 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


33 


most  in  awe  and  dismay.  Another  instant  had  told  him  that 
his  impression  had  merely  been  wrought  by  some  unusual 
effect  of  the  light.  And  yet  a  hundred  times  he  had  seen 
his  loved  father  look  at  him  just  like  that ! 

"  Not  to  mind  who  has  written  one's  letters  to  one,"  shot 
through  his  thought,  "  may  mean  the  beginning  of  some 
frightful  mental  apathy.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  care.  .  .  .  Let  it 
come  !  Dear  old  father  !  ....  he  looked  at  me,  there,  as 
if  he  meant  to  reproach  me.  Reproach  me  ?  For  what  ? 
Because  I  think  my  life  is  ended  ?  It  is  ended.  I've  noth- 
ing more  to  live  for — nothing  !  " 

He  glanced  again  at  the  portrait.  Its  eyes  (following  his 
own  as  the  eyes  of  portraits  do  when  you  observe  them  with 
attention)  seemed  to  indicate  the  letters  on  the  table  just 
below  it.  Hubert  glanced  a  second  time  over  his  corre- 
spondence, and  discovered  that  one  of  the  envelopes  bore 
every  sign  of  containing  a  telegram.  He  opened  it  and 
read,  with  a  thrill  of  sharper  concern  than  he  had  believed 
it  possible  for  him  to  feel,  these  few  yet  pregnant  lines : 

"  NEW  YORK,  May,  18  — . 

"  Mrs.  Averill,  my  mistress,  was  thrown  from  her  carriage 
while  driving  in  the  Park  this  afternoon,  and  very  danger- 
ously hurt.  The  doctors  do  not  think  she  can  live  more 
than  a  day  or  two.  She  has  asked  several  times  to  see  you, 
and  as  if  there  were  something  on  her  mind  that  she  wanted 
to  have  you  know.  Please  try  and  get  to  her  at  once. 

"  DELIA  LAMB." 

There  was  a  train  that  left  Ponchatuk  for  New  York  at 
nine  o'clock  that  evening.  Hubert  had  just  time  to  catch 
it.  This  telegram  from  the  servant  of  Mrs.  Averill  had 
affected  him  in  the  most  unforeseen  way.  It  had  swept  a 
galvanic  current  through  his  torpor,  and  quickened  indiffer- 
ence into  vivacity.  After  all,  there  was  one  person  in  the 
world  whose  welfare  or  misfortune  interested  him.  He  had 
learned  of  late  to  look  on  Alva  Averill  as  the  salt  of  the 
3 


34  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

earth.  Angela's  perfidy  could  not  make  him  forget  the 
devotion  of  her  friend.  In  journeying  from  a  gay  metrop- 
olis where  all  sort  of  diversion  was  at  her  command,  to  help 
in  vigils  at  the  side  of  her  old  school-mate's  dying  father, 
had  been  a  deed  of  the  sweetest  generosity.  And  to  think 
that  this  good,  true  woman  lay  at  the  door  of  death,  vvhife 
she  who  had  so  steeped  herself  in  the  foulest  guile  might 
perhaps  live  on  for  years  without  a  hint  of  disaster !  It  was 
one  of  destiny's  many  hideous  injustices! 

Hubert  did  not  reach  the  Madison  Avenue  house  until 
about  eleven  o'clock  that  night.  Delia  Lamb,  an  elderly 
woman,  with  gray  streaks  in  her  hair  and  a  sedulous,  respon- 
sible demeanor,  met  him  immediately. 

"  She's  very  low,  sir,"  said  Delia.  "  It's  her  spine  that 
was  hurt,  and  the  doctors  are  afraid  she  may  go  off  any 
minute." 

Hubert  repressed  a  shudder.  "  Is  she  in  much  pain  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  None,  sir.     She's  just  very  weak — that's  all." 

"  Thank  God  she  doesn't  suffer  !  The  horses  took  fright, 
I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  was  thrown  out  after  they'd  gone  over 
two  miles.  They  picked  her  up  near  the  Webster  statue, 
The  poor  coachman  was  killed,  sir." 

"  Killed ! " 

"Yes,  sir;  and  the  footman,  at  his  side  on  the  box, 
escaped  without  a  scratch.  When  they  raised  Mrs.  Averill 
they  thought  she  was  dead  ;  but  before  they  got  her  home 
she'd  come  to." 

"  And  you  say  that  the  doctors  give  no  hope  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — none." 

'  Why  the  devil,'  thought  Hubert,  '  does  this  woman  talk 
about  so  horrid  a  calamity  without  shedding  a  tear  ?  It 
doesn't  seem  as  if  she  had  human  feelings.  .And  she's  lived 
with  Alva  for  a  century  or  so.' 

Delia  Lamb  had  indeed  been  for  a  long  time  in  the  ser 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  35 

vice  of  Mrs.  Averill;  She  had  never  been  thought  a  cold 
woman  ;  and  yet  so  far  she  had  not  shown  a  trace  of  any 
strong  sorrow  since  the  calamity  had  occurred. 

Hubert  soon  saw  one  of  the  physicians  and  learned  from 
him  that  there  need  be  no  postponement  of  the  interview 
which  his  kinswoman  desired  to  hold.  She  might  not  live 
till  morning,  and  she  might  linger  on  for  a  day  or  so ;  but 
her  recovery  was  impossible,  her  speedy  death  certain. 
Already  she  lay  quite  paralyzed  from  the  waist  clown.  Still, 
her  mind  was  clear  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  since  it  had 
become  set  on  holding  a  talk  with  Hubert,  opposition  to 
such  a  plan  would  be  almost  brutality. 

Shortly  after  his  talk  with  the  physician,  Hubert  was 
shown  into  the  chamber  where  Mrs.  Averill  lay.  It  was  fiul 
of  a  soft,  brooding  light,  high  enough  for  him  to  discern  how 
rich  and  effective  were  its  appointments.  The  olive-tinted 
face  that  was  visible  on  one  of  the  pillows  of  the  bed  made 
his  nerves  tingle  as  he  regarded  it.  Naturally  it  was 
untouched  by  the  faintest  ravage  of  emaciation,  and  yet  it 
bore  the  plain  and  ghastly  stamp  of  death. 

"You  came,"  she  said,  as  Hubert  dropped  into  a  chair  at 
her  bedside.  Her  voice  was  feeble,  and  keyed  so  unchar- 
acteristically that  if  he  had  not  known  it  was  she  who  spoke, 
he  would  not  even  have  dreamed  it  to  be  hers.  "  You 
came,"  she  repeated,  while  he  stooped  over  one  of  her  hands 
and  fondled  and  kissed  it.  Then,  to  his  astonishment,  she 
drew  the  hand  away  and  slipped  it  beneath  the  coverlid. 
"  They  told  me,"  she  now  proceeded,  "  that  you  had  gone 
out  of  town.  I  suspected  that  you  had  gone  down  there  to 
the  South  Side.  I  made  her  telegraph  you.  I  was  right, 
wasn't  I  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Hubert  said.  He  let  a  slight  pause  ensue.  "  I'm 
so  glad,  Alva,"  he  presently  ventured,  "  that  you  are  not  in 
any  pain." 

"  No ;  I  don't  suffer  at  all.  I  can  only  move  my  hands, 
and  yet  I  have  no  restless  feeling.  I  don't  want  to  do  any- 


36  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

thing  but  just  lie  still  like  this.  It's  lucky,  isn't  it  ?  "  And 
she  smiled,  almost  in  the  same  way  that  he  had  seen  her 
smile  numberless  times  before  now. 

"  My  poor  Alva  ! "  he  said  ;  and  here  he  put  forth  his 
hand  as  if  to  take  her  own  again ;  but  she  would  not  give  it 
him,  keeping  it  hidden. 

"  Hubert,"  she  began,  with  her  black  eyes  full  on  his 
face,  "  I'm  afraid  you  will  not  pity  me  when  you've  heard 
what  I  sent  for  you  that  I  might  .  .  .  confess." 

"  Confess  ?  "  he  iterated.  "  Ah,  my  dear  Alva,  you've 
nothing  to  confess  except  good  deeds  !  " 

"Have  I  not?"  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  he  saw  her 
joined  lips  tighten.  In  another  minute  she  was  looking  at 
him  again. 

" '  Confess'  is  the  only  right  word,"  she  said.  "  I've 
wronged  you  horribly,  Hubert.  I  did  the  most  dastardly 
thing  to  you.  If  I  were  a  man,  alive  and  well,  instead  of  a 
woman  with  only  a  little  while  to  live,  I  believe  you  would 
try  to  kill  me  when  you  have  heard  the  whole  truth." 

'  She  is  raving/  he  thought,  as  he  sat  and  watched  her. 
'  Poor  Alva  !  what  a  forlorn  end  of  a  gay,  innocent,  unsullied 
life  like  hers  ! ' 

But  she  continued  speaking,  and  a  great  horror  seemed 
slowly  turning  his  blood  to  ice  as  he  listened. 


III. 


"  HUBERT,"  this  dying  woman  said,  "  I  am  to  blame  for  all 
that  Angela  Laight  did.  Yes,  I.  One  day,  not  long  since, 
a  woman  with  a  child  came  to  me.  She  had  heard  some  tale 
about  my  being  on  the  verge  of  marrying  Bleakly  Voght. 
After  I  had  told  her  that  the  report  was  wholly  false  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  declared  to  me — what  I  had  already  felt 
almost  sure  of — that  Bleakly  Voght  was  the  father  of  her 
child.  He  had  sworn  to  marry  her  and  had  not  done  so. 
The  woman  begged  that  I  would  force  him  to  make  her  this 

long-promised   reparation That    same    day    Angela 

Laight  and  my  strange  visitor  chanced  to  meet  in  one  of  the 
halls  here.  I  was  tempted,  and  I  committed  a  wicked 
crime.  I  told  Angela  that  the  child  was  yours,  that  the 
woman  had  been  your  paramour.  I  told  her  this,  and  she 
believed  it.  But  she  wanted  further  proof,  and  I  affected  to 
want  it  as  well.  She  played  into  my  hands  by  asking  me  to 
get  such  proof,  and  assuring  me  that  she  would  think  it  a 
kind  service  if  I  did.  This  made  my  task  of  deception 
strangely  easy.  Angela  and  you,  between  you,  put  the 
whole  wicked  game  into  my  own  hands.  I  had  let  a  devilish 
impulse  rule  me,  and  when  I  thought,  just  afterward,  of  how 
detection  would  be  almost  sure  to  follow  my  act  of  madness, 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  hurry  off  to  Europe  as 
soon  as  exposure  came,  and  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life 
there.  Well,  you  know  what  course  you  chose  to  pursue. 
If  you  had  forced  yourself  into  her  presence  after  receiving 
her  letter  (one  which  I  had  dictated  to  her  almost  word  for 
word),  you  might  have  found  out  the  scandalous  truth  in  no 
time.  But  you  simply  became  the  slave  of  your  own  pride. 


38  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

You  and  she  had  made  puppets  of  yourselves,  and  I  held 
the  wires.  Bleakly  Voght's  return  from  Europe  was  terribly 
opportune,  and  ..." 

"  Stop.  You  need  not  go  on.  I  see  this  whole  vile 
thing." 

He  had  risen,  and  stood  quite  near  to  where  she  lay. 
His  hands  hung  at  his  sides,  but  a  stronger  light  would  have 
shown  how  they  were  clinched.  She  looked  up,  and  marked 
his  lips  quiver  and  his  eyes  blaze. 

"  Still,  you  may  not  see  what  my  motive  has  been,"  she 
returned.  "I  loved  you.  I  can  say  it  now  without  shame, 
since  I  ...  I'm  dying.  Long  before  Angela  ever  saw  you 
I — I  wanted  to  win  the  place  that  she  secured.  Perhaps 
you'll  grant  there's  a  shadow  of  excuse,  for  me  on  this 
account." 

"  Excuse  !  " 

He  lifted  one  hand,  and  for  an  instant  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  must  strike  her  dead,  woman  and  dying  though  she 
was.  But  this  madness  left  him  in  a  second  or  two ;  his 
hand  dropped  at  his  side  again  ;  he  moved  toward  the  door 
of  the  chamber. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  forgive  me,"  her  voice  now  rang  wail- 
fully.  "  Ah,  won't  you,  Hubert  ?  Think  of  how  I  am  !  So 
soon  to  die  !  " 

He  turned,  pausing,  and  met  her  eyes  again.  His  own 
appeared  kindled  with  a  scathing  contempt,  and  he  uncon- 
sciously so  curled  his  lip  that  she  could  catch  a  flash  of  the 
white  teeth  below  his  scant  gold  moustache. 

"The  evil  you've  done  will  live  after  you,"  he  shot  back  at 
her.  "  Be  sure  of  that." 

"  But  ah,"  she  called,  "  won't  you  forgive  me,  Hubert  ? 
Won't  you  ?  " 

He  passed  from  the  room,  and  got  out  into  the  street  as 
soon  as  his  dazed,  whirling  brain  would  let  him  find  the  way 
thither.  One  of  the  physicians  met  him  in  the  upper  hall 
and  spoke  to  him  certain  words — doubtless  of  surprise  at 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  39 

his  brief  sojourn  near  Mrs.  AverilFs  bedside.  But  he  did 
not  remember  what  answer  he  made  the  physician — or 
whether,  indeed,  he  made  any. 

He  went  home.  He  had  lived,  ever  since  the  death  of  his 
parents,  in  the  roomy  old  family-house  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
not  far  from  Washington  Square.  As  he  ascended  its  stoop 
a  white  face  with  black,  eagerly-dilated  eyes  went  floating 
up  too,  just  at  his  shoulder.  He  fancied  he  saw  the  lips 
open,  and  heard  a  voice  issue  from  them.  "  Won't  you  for- 
give me,  Hubert  ? "  cried  the  voice,  that  was  like  a  silence 
made  weirdly  audible. 

In  the  big,  lonely  house  it  was  still  worse.  The  face 
flitted  from  right  to  left,  left  to  right,  and  5  o  did  the  voice. 

He  thought  of  her  incomparable  deceit,  of  the  misery  and 
folly  it  had  engendered,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  had 
been  right,  beyond  all  refutation  right,  in  treating  her  as  he 
had  done.  A  menace  of  sudden  death  had  thrown  its 
falsely  piteous  glamour  over  her  sin.  But  that  sin  was  no 
less  loathsome  because  death  had  followed  it  with  speed 
instead  of  delay.  It  was  no  more  pardonable  on  this  account. 

'  What,'  he  indignantly  mused,  '  will  be  the  results  of  her 
hateful  deed  ?  She  has  driven  that  poor  girl  into  making  a 
marriage  which  must  mean  agony  of  the  rack  itself ;  she  has, 
for  me,  crippled  the  action  and  shackled  the  freedom  of  all 
my  future  life.' 

He  thought  of  Angela,  whom  he  might  have  saved  an 
hour,  a  half-hour,  ten  minutes  before  that  wild,  silly  matri- 
monial plunge  of  hers  was  taken,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  at 
the  doltish  way  in  which  he  had  let  a  lie  snare  him.  Even 
if  he  had  called  out  to  her  at  the  very  altar's  foot,  "  You  are 
marrying  the  betrayer  of  the  woman  whom  you  thought  I 
had  wronged,"  she  would  have  turned  and  renounced  Voght 
on  the  instant.  It  might  have  been  melodrama,  but  it  would 
have  been  salvation  as  well.  And  what  a  boon,  if  some  pre- 
cious entrance-cue  had  only  come  to  him,  that  he  might 
have  played  the  leading  role  in  even  so  sensational  a  scene. 


4O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

As  matters  now  stood,  all  life  was  at  a  dead-lock  with  him. 
Beyond  doubt,  it  gave  him  comfort  to  realize  that  Angela 
had  not  steeped  herself  in  the  worst  worldly  greed,  and  that 
her  marriage  to  Bleakly  Voght  was  one  of  passionate  pique, 
supposably  fed  with  all  the  fuel  of  persuasion  on  which,  at 
short  notice,  alert  duplicity  could  light.  And  yet  wrath 
against  her  who  had  brought  this  abomination  to  pass,  and 
contempt  of  self  for  having  failed  to  believe  any  falsity  in  a 
love  that  he  had  till  then  trusted  so  devoutly,  made  even 
the  recognition  of  Angela's  less  blameworthy  behavior  con- 
fer upon  him  only  a  tepid  joy. 

He  avowed  to  himself  that  it  would  have  been  terrible  if 
he  had  killed  his  cousin,  and  yet  that  for  him  to  do  so  would 
have  belonged  less  to  barbarism  than  to  simple  justice. 
And  now,  as  for  giving  her  his  pardon — ah,  no  ;  she  must 
find  some  new  way  to  die,  before  one  word  of  the  sort  her 
guilt-drenched  soul  was  craving  should  ever  be  wrung  from 
his  lips. 

He  began  slowly  to  pace  the  floor  of  his  library,  a  room 
full  of  dark  woods,  and  books  on  low  shelves,  and  heavy- 
folded  tapestries.  There  were  a  few  bronze  and  marble 
busts  here  and  there,  looming  through  the  soft  light.  Pres- 
ently he  drew  near  his  favorite  desk.  What  a  pang  of 
memory  shot  through  him  as  he  saw  the  white  writing-paper 
lying  there,  with  the  pen  thrown  down  beside  it,  and  some 
unfinished  verses  that  now  bore  so  frightful  a  sarcasm,  and 
were  the  last  he  had  written  before  the  blow  fell,  and  would 
be  the  last  (so  he  had  inflexibly  decided)  that  he  ever  meant 
to  write  again. 

But  during  that  slow,  monotonous  walk  of  his  Hubert  be- 
gan to  feel,  as  he  had  never  dreamed  of  feeling  before,  how 
much  greatness  may  lie  in  the  power  to  forgive.  Here  was 
he,  not  cruel  or  even  unkind  by  nature,  and  yet  with  ferocity 
of  revolt  waiting  at  any  instant  to  rise  against  the  idea  of 
giving  a  dying  woman  his  pardon  ! 

At  last  he  sank  into  a  chair  and   buried  his  face  in  his 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  4! 

hands.  It  was  a  beautiful  face  that  he  thus  concealed,  but 
one  on  whose  clear,  noble,  poetic  features  already  the  im- 
print of  supreme  sorrow  had  fallen.  The  light  of  a  near 
lamp  was  shed,  at  this  moment,  on  his  short,  thick  golden 
curls  ;  and  sitting  thus,  with  hidden  visage,  he  made  a  pict- 
ure of  complete  desolation  and  dejection  to  which  every 
line  of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure  lent  its  especial  aid. 

Alva's  voice  was  yet  ringing  through  his  brain.  Its 
echoes  were  ineludible ;  they  had  become  as  persistent  as  a 
remorse.  Were  they  growing  to  resemble  one  ?  And  yet 
how  should  he,  Hubert  Throckmorton,  find  reason  for  the 
slightest  compunction  in  his  desire  to  resent  so  traitorous 
and  abhorrent  an  act  ?  '  Would  I  not  inflict  a  mighty  pun 
ishment  upon  her  if  only  I  could,'  he  asked  himself,  '  and 
shall  I  recoil  from  dealing  her  now  what  is  but  justice  in 
its  most  meagre  sense  ? ' 

Still,  she  was  dying,  and  she  had  begged  him  to  forgive 
her.  He  could  not,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  escape  the 
haunting  potency  of  this  appeal.  His  ratiocination  gave  it 
just  the  neat,  sure  answer  that  seemed  adequate  beyond  all 
hint  of  cavil.  But  his  sensibilities,  his  emotional  part,  his 
irresistible  impulse  of  pity  for  one  stricken  down  by  an 
untoward  blow  of  fate,  slowly  yet  steadily  gained  ground 
against  his  merciless  if  righteous  logic. 

She  had  loved  him.  Perhaps  no  man  who  ever  lived  has 
been  quite  without  vanity,  and  Hubert  had  not  much  of  it, 
but  he  possessed,  after  all,  let  us  say,  a  distinct  human  share. 
Her  infamy  had  been  committed  through  love  of  himself. 
The  more  he  brooded,  the  more  clean-cut  this  consideration 
rose  as  an  off-set  against  the  implacable  causes  why  he 
should  neither  compassionate  nor  condone 

At  last  he  sprang  from  the  chair  into  which  he  had  sunk, 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  had  become  later  than  he 
had  thought.  He  sped  from  his  house,  got  into  a  stray  cab, 
and  had  himself  driven  at  severe  spe^d  to  the  house  in  Mad- 
ison Avenue.  • 


42  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

The  servant  at  the  door  told  him  that  Mrs.  Averill  was 
very  ill,  and  that  there  was  hardly  any  chance  of  her  living 
through  the  night.  He  pushed  past  this  servant,  who  knew 
well  enough  who  he  was.  The  little  reception-room  just  off 
the  hall  was  full  of  anxious-faced  people,  men  and  ladies, 
nearly  all  of  whom  he  knew :  Mrs.  Averill  had  been  too  defi- 
nite a  social  power  for  this  news  of  her  unhappy  accident 
not  to  have  caused  a  sombre  gathering  of  her  particular  gay- 
minded  little  clan.  But  Hubert  hurried  straight  upstairs. 
No  one  who  observed  his  precipitancy  was  in  the  least  sur- 
prised by  it.  As  the  poor  injured  lady's  kinsman,  he  had,  of 
course,  a  right  paramount  over  any  which  her  mere  acquaint- 
ances could  assume. 

When  he  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  AverilPs  chamber,  the 
physician  with  whom  he  had  talked  earlier  in  the  evening 
opened  and  slowly  emerged  from  it. 

"  Doctor,"  began  Hubert,  using  a  voice  louder  than  he 
was  himself  aware  of,  "  how  is  Mrs. — ?  " 

The  physician  raised  one  finger,  and  a  look  went  with  his 
gesture  that  could  have  but  a  single  meaning,  while  he 
whispered,  "  She  has  just  died."  Hubert  felt  as  if  he  had 
already  heard  the  words. 

Not  until  two  days  after  their  marriage  did  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bleakly  Voght  learn  of  Alva  AverilPs  death.  On  hearing 
the  poignant  news,  Angela,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
fainted  away.  Perhaps  her  youth  and  strength  could  have 
withstood  even  a  shock  so  dreadful  had  not  the  severest 
mental  strain  and  pressure  been  at  work  for  days  preceding 
her  wedding-clay.  The  newly  joined  pair  were  now  in  Wash 
ington.  It  was  impossible  to  reach  New  York  in  time  for 
the  funeral,  unless  they  spent  all  that  night  in  travelling. 

"  And  you  must  not  think  of  anything  so  foolish,"  Voght 
said  to  Angela,  just  after  she  had  recovered  from  her  faint- 
ing-fit, and  while  the  pallor  in  her  face  yet  recalled  it. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  43 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  with  instant  resolution,  "  I 
would  not  miss  it  for  the  world.  She  was  my  dearest 
friend." 

Voght  smiled  a  little  grimly.  Perhaps  he  had  his  suspi- 
cions as  to  just  how  dear  a  friend  she  had  really  been  ;  and 
in  any  case  it  is  sure  that  he  long  ago  had  guessed  her  love 
for  Hubert  Throckmorton. 

"  We're  not  going,  however,"  he  said,  "  and  that  ends  it." 
He  spoke  with  very  kind  tones,  but  with  the  air,  nevertheless, 
of  one  who  pronounces  a  final  decision. 

"  That  does  not  end  it,"  said  Angela,  shaking  her  head ; 
"  at  least,  not  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  must  go  alone  if 
you  will  not  go  with  me  ;  but  go  I  certainly  shall." 

Voght  bit  his  lip  as  he  looked  at  her,  with  her  creamy 
skin,  her  low-growing  auburn  hair,  and  her  black-lashed, 
blue-gray  eyes.  She  was  to  him  peculiarly  and  intoxicat- 
ingly  fair — and  they  had  been  married  only  two  days.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  another  minute,  went  up  to  her, 
kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  said  : 

"  As  you  please,  darling.  It  was  only  of  yourself  that  I 
was  thinking.  Since  you  are  so  bent  upon  going,  why,  let  it 
be  just  as  you  say." 

He  had  not  been  accustomed  to  yield  like  this.  For  a 
good  many  years  he  had  had  his  own  way,  tyrannically,  in 
everything.  Angela  had  already  observed  in  him  an  impe- 
riousness  toward  all  servants  and  officials  which  he  would 
perhaps  have  restrained  in  her  presence  if  long  habit  had  not 
made  him  unconscious  that  he  employed  it.  He  was  still 
too  much  under  the  thrall  of  passion  for  the  least  sign  of 
his  real  tejnper  to  betray  itself.  He  would  have  got  down 
upon  the  ground  and  kissed  her  feet  if  she  had  even  sug- 
gested to  him  any  such  obsequious  act.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  he  had  never  loved  any  woman  until  now,  and  posses- 
sion of  her  whom  he  had  for  many  months  regarded  as  un- 
attainable wrought  in  him  a  softness,  a  deference,  a  tender 
humility,  which  would  have  rendered  him  in  her  own  eyes, 


44  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

provided  she  herself  had  loved  and  not  merely  tolerated 
him,  winsome  to  an  untold  degree.  As  it  was,  she  dared 
not  think  at  all  deliberatively  upon  the  step  that  she  had  taken. 
She  had  somehow  been  whirled  into  taking  it.  Pique,  pride, 
a  tingling  sense  of  outrage,  had  abetted  the  counsels  of  Mrs. 
Averill  and  the  ardent  resumption  of  a  former  suit,  urged  by 
Voght  himself.  She  had  awakened,  as  it  were,  to  find  her- 
self irrevocably  married.  And  now  had  come  this  horrifying 
intelligence  about  Alva.  That  took  her  thoughts  away  from 
her  own  lot — and  perhaps  (for  the  interval,  at  least)  such 
distraction  was  the  most  merciful  of  reprieves. 

They  spent  the  third  night  after  their  union  amid  the 
clangors  of  a  sleeping-car.  Angela  did  not  gain  a  second  of 
slumber,  and  while  she  lay  and  knew  herself  being  darted 
through  the  darkness  toward  the  dead  face  of  her  trusted 
and  treasured  friend,  despairing  voices  seemed  to  address 
her  in  the  cacophony  of  the  hurtling  train.  At  one  moment 
she  fancied  that  she  heard  Alva  calling  to  her,  just  as 
Hubert  Throckmorton  had  heard  not  long  since — and  yet 
with  how  deep  a  difference  !  At  another  moment  she  imag- 
ined that  Hubert's  voice  called,  and  then  the  fanciful  and 
delirious  words  were  tinged  with  an  equal  repentance  and 
reproach.  "  Was  my  fault  great  enough,  after  all,"  her  lost 
lover  seemed  to  say,  "  for  you  to  have  punished  it  as  you 
did?  And  in  so  punishing  it,  what  calamitous  term  of  mis- 
ery may  you  not  have  brought  upon  your  own  life  ?  At 
least  you  might  have  remained  un wedded,  out  of  respect  for 
the  love  I  know  so  well  that  you  once  bore  me,  even  though 
that  love  had  become  one  which  your  self-respect  and  your 
sense  of  justice  forbade  you  openly  to  return." 

But  all  these  antic  and  grotesque  appeals  melted  into  a 
drean-,  matter-of-fact  silence  as  dawn  brought  with  it  the 
grimy  suburbs  of  New  York  and  the  termination  of  poor 
Angela's  most  dolorous  wedding-tour.  The  funeral  was  to 
be  held  at  twelve  o'clock  that  clay.  Her  husband  took  her 
straight  to  his  handsome  home  in  Gramercy  Park,  of  which 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  45 

many  a  New  York  maiden  had  longed  through  many  a  past 
year  to  become  the  mistress.  Here  surprised  servants 
bowed  to  her  as  she  entered  at  Voght's  side,  and  in  a  trice 
she  found  that  a  rich-appointed  bed-chamber  had  been  made 
ready  for  her  reception,  with  the  light  of  the  brilliant  May 
morning  otUside  tempered  into  the  most  sleep-wooing  dusk. 

Bleakly  Voght  would  have  been  unrecognizable  to  his 
friends  if  they  could  have  seen  him  as  he  now  adjured 
Angela  to  try  and  get  some  real  repose  before  the  funeral 
took  place. 

"  But  I  must  see  her,"  she  murmured,  while  sinking  upon 
the  soft  bed.  "  I  must  go  to  her  house  and  see  her,  before 
they  close  the  coffin  !  "  It  was  still  quite  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  Voght,  in  his  fond  desire  for  her  physical  welfare, 
had  hopes  that  she  might  sleep  late  on  into  the  day.  Still, 
he  gave  her  a  promise  that  if  she  fell  asleep  she  should  be 
aroused  in  time  to  carry  out  her  most  earnest  desire. 

As  it  proved,  she  scarcely  slept  at  all.  .  .  .  While  Alva 
Averill's  friends  were  gathering  about  her  coffined  face 
some  time  before  the  hearse  bore  its  burden  to  Trinity 
Chapel,  Angela  appeared  among  the  little  awed  and  low- 
whispering  throng.  Not  far  away,  through  her  blinding  tears, 
she  saw  Hubert.  She  stooped  and  kissed  the  dead  woman's 
forehead  again  and  again,  while  her  sobs  rang  through  the 
still  room.  Once  he  heard  "  my  best  of  friends"  leave  her 
lips  in  a  choked,  struggling  way. 

'  If  she  but  knew,'  he  thought,  while  he  watched  her. 

Afterward,  at  the  funeral,  amid  the  great  crowd  that 
filled  the  church,  their  eyes  met.  '  My  God/  swept  through 
his  mind,  'does  she  so  soon  stand  at  bay  before  the  irrep- 
arable ? '  For  thus  it  had  seemed  to  him,  judging  from  the 
wild,  sweet  wistfulness  of  her  gaze,  transient  though  that 
had  been. 

The  funeral  was  very  large,  and  the  flowers  were  one 
splendid  memorial  glory  that  many  a  great  man  or  woman 
has  gone  to  the  grave  without  so  much  as  a  hint  of;  but 


46  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

those  who  went  to  Greenwood  were  rather  few,  though  An. 
gela  insisted  upon  being  one  of  them,  and  perhaps  because 
of  the  pardon  that  he  had  failed  to  extend  the  dying,  Hu- 
bert now  paid  this  last  act  of  kinship  and  kindliness  to  the 
dead. 

The  birds  were  chirping  over  the  dumb,  white  head-stones 
at  Greenwood,  and  the  blue  brightness  of  the  May  sky,  the 
delicate  greenery  of  innumerable  buds  and  shoots,  brought 
death  and  life,  thrift  and  decay,  motion  and  repose,  into  ac- 
tual violence  of  contrast.  The  occupants  of  the  various 
carriages  alighted  after  their  long  journey  across  the  river. 
Somehow,  as  they  were  all  pressing  toward  the  open  grave, 
it  chanced  that  Hubert  and  Angela  found  themselves  close 
together.  The  latter  had  already  seen  that  her  husband  was 
some  little  distance  ahead.  An  irresistible  impulse  now 
took  possession  of  her. 

"  Our  poor  Alva,"  she  broke  forth,  "  whom  we  both  knew 
and — and  loved  so  well !  Is  it  not  terrible  ?" 

He  gave  a  great  start  as  it  became  clear  to  him  that  her 
words  were  meant  for  his  own  ears.  Then,  as  he  turned 
and  looked  into  her  face,  with  that  enchanting  sensitiveness 
and  womanliness  about  the  mould  of  its  lips  and  chin,  a 
fierce  agony  stormed  and  shook  his  spirit.  With  flashes  of 
the  eye,  but  in  a  voice  no  less  equable  than  low,  he  an- 
swered : 

"  It  is  terrible,  certainly.  But  if  we  had  neither  of  us 
known  her  nor  cared  for  her  so  well,  we  might  both  have 
been  spared  some  of  the  worst  suffering  that  lives  here  on 
earth  can  be  cursed  by." 

Then  he  forced  his  eyes  away  from  hers,  and  soon  had 
widened  the  distance  between  them.  Angela  did  not  see 
him  afterward.  He  so  managed  that  she  should  not.  The 
burial  was  made,  in  that  implacable  way  which  belongs  to 
all  burials,  whether  the  great  or  the  lowly,  the  rich  or  the 
pauper  pass  back  into  that  earth  whence  they  came.  The 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


47 


clods  fell;  the  mound  was  heaped;  the  friends  dispersed, 
and  the  eternal  monotony  of  forgetfulness  began.  .  .  . 

For  days  Hubert  was  bitterly  sorry  that  he  had  spoken  to 
Angela  as  he  did  speak.  But  there  was  no  revocation  pos- 
sible, now.  He  had  meant  to  keep  the  whole  storv  oi  the 
dead  woman's  vile  conduct  a  strict  secret.  Angela  had 
done  a  mad  thing;  she  must  atone  for  it  horribly.  Her 
expiation  in  itself  would  be  hard  and  harsh  enough.  Why 
burden  her  with  new  torments  ?  Why  seek  to  justify  himself 
in  her  eyes  ?  She  was  lost  to  him  ;  what  mattered  it  whether 
or  no  she  realized  the  enormity  of  her  blunder  ? 

'I  realize  the  enormity  of  mine,'  he  told  himself,  'and  I 
endure  misery  in  consequence.'  And  then  there  came  a  re- 
flection of  whose  magnanimity  he  was  not  conscious,  although 
it  bespoke  a  finer  fibre  of  moral  strength  than  that  which  the 
majority  of  lovers,  in  all  our  recorded  annals  of  them,  usually 
can  appeal  to.  '  If  she  was  insensately  rash,'  his  musings 
continued,  '  so  was  I.  She  might  have  saved  herself,  and 
did  not.  But  I  might  have  saved  us  both,  and  did  not. 
She  knew  that  I  loved  her  and  that  even  if  I  had  committed 
a  fault  such  as  the  one  Alva  charged  me  with,  it  was  some- 
thing that  I  must  have  loathed  myself  for,  hence  to  a  degree 
meriting  her  pardon.  But  I,  in  turn,  knew  that  such  a  letter 
as  the  one  she  wrote  me  could  not  have  meant  her  genuine 
self.  ...  I  had  kissed  her  on  the  lips  too  often  for  that;  I 
had  felt  the  perfume  of  her  love  too  richly  and  intelligibly ; 
I  had  surveyed  in  all  its  priceless  breadth  the  dear  dominion 
of  her  trust ! ' 

All  that  his  dead  relation  had  told  him  about  a  certain 
woman  and  her  child  he  had  proved  to  be  incontestably 
true.  There  are  always  means  of  bringing  to  light  these 
grim  secrets,  and  he  had  assured  himself,  through  the  em- 
ployment of  professional  detective  aid,  that  the  sin  of  Voght 
had  been  no  less  a  fact  than  the  almost  equal  sin  of  Alva 
Averill.  Inevitably  his  wound  healed  a  little.  He  was  an 
idealist,  in  the  imaginative  sense,  and  he  could  not  look  on 


48  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

the  beauty  of  the  world  about  him — a  beauty  which  even  the 
ugliness  of  New  York  at  its  most  metropolitan  hideous  failed 
quite  to  dispel — without  finding  in  his  youth  and  the  health- 
ful beat  of  his  pulse  incentive  for  some  sort  of  patient  deter- 
mination. 

He  had  been  born  in  what  are  called  the  ranks  of  caste, 
and  his  extraordinary  felicity,  sweetness,  and  gentleness  of 
demeanor  had  made  numerous  men  and  women  seek  and 
court  him.  His  easy  wealth,  too,  had  helped  toward  his 
popularity.  We  have  heard  how  Bleakly  Voght  despised 
his  turn  for  poetry  ;  but  few  others  in  the  class  to  which 
inheritance  had  long  ago  admitted  him  shared  this  prejudice. 
On  the  contrary,  he  was  esteemed  so  unconsciously  winning 
and  even  princely  in  his  every-day  deportment  that  the 
fact  of  his  being  a  poet  but  added  attraction  to  his  company. 
He  had  indeed  achieved  a  certain  fame  for  his  verses. 
There  is  no  critical  authority  in  our  land  by  which  the 
literary  man  may  either  rise  or  fall ;  but  those  few  judges 
who  mingle  charity  and  acumen  had  already  declared 
him  a  poet  of  remarkable  excellence. 

But  now  he  felt  as  if  his  Muse  had  departed  from  him 
forever.  He  had  not  been  stirred,  in  his  most  vehement 
moods  of  composition,  by  any  ambitious  fervors.  He  had 
desired  to  write— simply  that — and  had  written.  No  spur 
for  the  gain  of  bread  had  pricked  him,  and  on  this  account 
he  had  wrought  his  poems  with  a  courage  and  serenity  of 
purpose  that  had  roused  the  incidental  rancor  of  profes- 
sional detractors.  His  art,  in  earlier  days,  had  kept  him 
from  those  gross  excesses  which  are  the  hauriting  demons 
of  idleness.  He  had  loved  poetry  as  an  art  no  less  than 
painters  love  their  canvases  and  colors  for  the  same  vital 
and  exhilarating  reason.  No  one  in  his  set  had  just 
understood  him,  but  he  had  not  cared  enough  for  his  set  to 
care  whether  it  understood  him  or  no.  Women  had  always 
sought  him  and  made  much  of  him  ;  but  they  had  never 
spoiled  him.  Like  many  poets,  he  had  no  sense  of  the 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


49 


subtler  and  loftier  effects  of  music.  His  soul  was  all  for 
rhythm  and  not  for  tonic  harmony  or  even  melody.  "  In 
Memoriam "  or  "  The  Princess "  could  move  him  more 
deeply  than  any  opera  he  had  ever  heard  or  ever  would 
hear.  Words  were  both  hue  and  sound  to  him,  if  rightly 
placed.  Yet  he  was  not  a  mere  lapidary  of  words,  treating 
them  like  choice  or  valueless  gems.  He  gave  to  them  their 
secondary  and  rightful  place  in  the  metrical  scheme  ;  he 
revered  Hugo,  Tennyson,  and  a  few  other  contemporaries  as 
poets,  but  the  nobility  of  their  themes  first  delighted  him, 
and  the  perfection  of  their  art  had  always  seemed  of 
minor  import.  He  had,  for  some  time  past,  felt  convinced 
that  any  poet  worth  hearing  at  all  must  have  a  voice  of  his 
own,  spontaneous  and  characteristic — not  a  mannerism,  but 
a  series  of  natural,  native  notes  that  breathed  of  unques- 
tionable authenticity.  '  Have  I  this  endowment  ? '  he  had 
repeatedly  asked  himself,  with  the  restless  introspection  of 
the  true  artist.  Again  and  again  he  had  said,  in  discour- 
aging reply,  '  No.'  But  there  had  been  a  few  kind  voices 
that  had  insisted  '  Yes.'  And  so  he  had  gone  on,  doubt- 
ing, half  believing,  and  yet  writing  the  verses  that  had  given 
him  far  more  fame  than  his  intrinsic  modesty  would  let  him 
recognize. 

But  now  .  .  .  Well,  all  was  chaos  and  night,  now.  He 
would  scarcely  have  known  that  May  had  fretted  itself 
into  the  heats  of  June  if  climatic  changes  had  not  thus 
assured  him.  He  could  not  write  a  line  ;  he  visited  his 
clubs  but  rarely,  and  then  with  a  feeling  of  annoyance,  for 
everybody  there  seemed  to  be  drinking  some  fiery  stuff 
or  another,  and  he  had  always  detested  that  mode  of 
making  time  fly  when  it  seems  to  lag.  Women  had  always 
charmed  him,  but  he  could  not  look  on  a  feminine  face  now- 
adays that  pleased  him  without  having  it  in  some  pathetic, 
half-piercing  way  remind  him  of  her. 

"  Sha'n't   you  go  to  Europe  this  year,  Throckmorton  ?  " 
somebody  asked  him  one  day  in  one  of  his  clubs, 
4 


50  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

He  hardly  knew  what  to  answer.  Europe  ?  He  had 
been  so  often.  What  was  new  to  see  there  ?  He  had  seen 
everything,  from  the  banalite's  of  Paris  to  the  crude  coulcur 
locale  of  St.  Petersburg.  He  had  even  been  into  Asia  a 
little,  and  as  for  Egypt,  he  had  explored  its  Nile-threaded 
monochrome  of  sand  as  far  as  the  third  cataract. 

The  weather  grew  hot.  He  thought  of  his  place  at 
Ponchatuk,  and  remembered  how  he  had  got  to  hate  it. 
It  made  him  think  of  that  night,  when  the  breezes  were 
flying  briskly  at  dusk,  and  the  white  stars  were  globing 
themselves,  and  he  had  felt  as  if  he  could  put  a  bullet 
through  his  head  or  slip  a  knife  into  his  throat.  Then  there 
had  come  that  telegram  about  Alva.  No,  he  would  not  go 
to  Ponchatuk.  All  the  mosquitoes  on  the  South  Side  (and 
their  name  was  trillion)  would  swarm  round  him  and  buzz 
into  his  ears  ironies  about  his  blasted  life.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  a  certain  point  relative  to  his  estate  at  Ponchatuk. 
It  was  destined  before  long  sharply  to  assail  him. 

There  came,  in  latter  June,  one  of  those  scorching  days 
which  made  the  town  an  odious  glare.  Till  then  he  had 
been  comfortable  enough  at  the  big  house  in  lower  Fifth 
Avenue.  His  people  there  were  mostly  old  servants,  who 
knew  his  simple  wants  and  ministered  to  them  with  faultless 
discretion.  But  to-day  the  heat  was  unbearable.  He 
thought  of  cows  under  trees  and  daisies  lifting  their  starry 
discs  to  chance  breezes. 

"  I  must  go  somewhere,"  he  thought,  and  went  into  Wash- 
ington Square,  only  a  step  or  two  away  from  where  he 
dwelt. 

Here  the  heat  was  blinding.  A  few  dingy  men  sat  on 
benches.  The  fountain  played  with  a  fatigued  spirt.  He 
paused  under  a  tree  that  failed  to  shade  him,  and  as  he  thus 
paused  he  saw  a  figure  approach  with  strides  vigorous 
enough  to  mean  no  one  more  definitely  personal  than 
Callahan  O'Hara. 

The  great,  virile,  handsome    Irishman  extended   a  hand. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  5  I 

"  You're  the  last  person,  Throckmorton,  I  dreamed  of  meet- 
ing. What  are  you  doing  in  town  this  dirty  day  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Hubert. 

O'Hara  laughed  in  his  mellow  way.  He  had  hazel  eyes, 
with  a  little  diamond  swimming  in  the  pupil  of  each,  a  thick 
reddish  moustache,  a  crop  of  coarse,  wavy  red  hair,  two 
fascinating  dimples,  and  the  sunniest  smile  out  of  his  native 
Ireland. 

"  Nothing  must  be  harder  to  do  this  weather  than  some- 
thing," he  said ;  "  it  gives  you  nothing  but  the  heat  to  think 
about." 

"Just  what  I  have  found,"  Hubert  grimly  acceded. 
"  And  you,  O'Hara  ?  what  are  your  plans  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  to  take  the  Long  Branch  boat  and  pass 
certainly  one  night,  perhaps  two,  at  the  West  End  Hotel." 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  down  there  with  you,"  said 
Hubert.  "  Will  you  have  me  ?  " 

"  Will  I  have  you  ? "  cried  O'Hara,  in  the  most  jovial  echo. 
"  Can  I  have  you,  old  fellow  ? "  And  he  seized  Hubert's 
hand  again,  wringing  it  as  if  no  such  mishap  as  hot  weather 
had  ever  been  heard  of. 


IV. 

IT  was  an  age  since  Hubert  had  been  down  at  Long 
Branch.  He  recalled  that  he  had  then  told  himself  no  power 
should  ever  drag  him  there  again,  and  had  denounced  the 
place  as  a  nude  stretch  of  sand,  whose  chief  products  were 
intense  heat,  larger  and  more  piratical  mosquitoes  than 
even  those  of  Ponchatuk,  and  an  assemblage  of  the  most 
vulgar-looking  people  on  earth.  He  had  counted  five  sepa- 
rate ladies  who  wore  rings  outside  their  gloves,  and  at  a  hotel 
"  hop  "  he  had  seen  a  young  "  society-man  "  in  full  evening- 
dress,  but  with  a  neck-tie  of  pink  silk.  That  pink  neck-tie 
had  a  criminal  look  which  one  needed  not  to  be  too  callous 
a  snob  for  the  purpose  of  fully  recognizing.  As  he  watched 
its  wearer's  radiant  self-importance,  Hubert  had  satirically 
told  himself  that  surely,  after  all,  on  this  earth  at  least,  we 
can  often  make  our  own  heaven  and  our  own  hell. 

Still,  in  spite  of  such  harrowing  memories,  it  now  suited 
his  caprice  to  take  the  boat  thither  in  Callahan  O'Hara's 
company.  There  was  something  dimly  agreeable  in  the 
realization  to  Hubert  that  he  could  be  visited  by  a  cap'rice 
definite  enough  to  be  called  one.  As  for  O'Hara,  he  was 
beaming  with  satisfaction  when  Hubert  dashed  up  to  the 
wharf,  perhaps  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  and  not 
hardly  a  minute  too  late  to  catch  the  bellowing  steamboat. 

The  two  men  lit  their  cigars  on  the  upper  deck,  and  soon 
felt  that  unutterable  relief  which  an  outgoing  vessel  will 
confer  when  the  docks  it  has  left  are  smitten  by  a  sun 
whose  rays  are  swords.  The  boat  was  loaded  with  people, 
but  in  these  neither  Hubert  nor  his  companion  took  the 
slightest  concern.  Here  was  a  different  world  from  either 
of  their  own,  which,  in  turn,  were  so  different  from  one  an- 


DIVIDED  LI]~ES.  53 

other.  There  had  been  a  time  when  Callahan  O'Hara, 
with  his  beauty  and  his  lustrous  mental  gifts,  might  have  won 
a  high  social  place.  He  was  a  man  of  good  literary  attain- 
ments, but  as  so  meagre  a  literary  society  exists  in  New  York, 
he  could  not  have  shone  among  the  salons  of  blue-stockings. 
What  he  might  have  done  with  brilliant  success  was  to  have 
made  himself  a  star  of  wit  and  taste  among  that  luxurious, 
indolence-loving  throng  which  more  than  one  clever  New 
York  journalist  has  managed  very  effectually  to  amuse. 

There  had  been  a  time,  several  years  ago,  when  Hubert 
had  thought  of  pushing  O'Hara  into  just  such  an  environ- 
ment. Indeed,  he  had  presented  the  young  Irishman  to  nu- 
merous ladies  and  gentlemen  whom  he  knew.  But  the  push- 
ing had  soon  proved  impossible.  O'Hara  delighted,  charmed, 
and  even  dazzled  all  his  new  acquaintances.  But  there  it  ab- 
ruptly ended.  In  those  times  he  had  two  besetting  faults — 
drunkenness  and  a  tendency  to  borrow  money.  To-day  he 
would  fascinate  some  lady  of  society,  who  would  be  willing 
to  declare  him  the  handsomest  and  most  entertaining  man 
she  had  met  in  years  ;  to-morrow  he  would  appear  tipsy  in 
her  presence  and  send  yesterday's  roseate  illusion  flying 
away  on  the  four  winds.  His  borrowing  proclivities  would 
perhaps  already  have  made  themselves  felt  with  her  father, 
husband,  or  brother.  Le  monde  ou  Von  s'ennuye  soon  woke 
to  the  fact  that  here  was  an  impossible  human  means  of 
diverting  itself.  Hubert,  too,  had  frankly  conceded  his 
mistake,  and  had  apologized  with  some  mortification  in 
various  directions. 

But  O'Hara  had  not  gone  from  bad  to  worse  as  regard- 
ed his  intemperance.  He  had,  indeed,  drawn  a  rather  tight 
rein  upon  it  for  two  or  three  years,  and  afterward  managed 
to  drink  with  that  species  of  moderation  which  limits  itself 
chastely  to  only  three  or  four  orgies  a  year.  But  it  struck 
Hubert  (who  knocked  up  against  him  every  now  and  then, 
just  as  he  had  done  this  afternoon)  that  in  a  journalistic 
sense  he  had  markedly  deteriorated.  He  was  now  in  a  much 


54  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

better  financial  condition ;  he  stood  as  one  of  two  or  three 
rulers  over  the  destiny  of  a  certain  weekly  journal,  whose 
tone  and  atmosphere  were  to  Hubert  no  less  repulsive  than 
distressing.  He  had  not  wanted  to  talk  with  O'Hara  about 
his  paper ;  there  were  so  many  other  things  that  the  engag- 
ing fellow  could  talk  about  much  more  attractively  for  his 
present  hearer.  But  the  subject  seemed  almost  inevitable 
when  O'Hara  began,  for  the  third  time  since  they  had  begun 
their  sail  : 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  fellow  ,  you  haven't  yet  given  me  an 
answer  about  your  'White  Violets.'  I  recollect  you  don't 
like  to  print  your  verses  in  the  magazines,  but  I  do  so  wish 
you'd  let  us  have  that  enchanting  sonnet.  As  for  price, 
you  know,  whether  you  cared  for  anything  or  not,  I  would 
make  a  point  of  promising  to  pay  you — " 

"  Oh  !  "  Hubert  here  broke  in  evasively,  "  I'm  afraid  that 
if  you  should  see  '  White  Violets  '  a  second  time  you'd  lose 
all  respect  for  it.  You  were  in  a  mood  of  sentiment  the  day 
I  read  it  to  you ;  your  own  personal  equation  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  your  admiration ;  yes,  I  assure  you  it  had. " 

"  Pshaw,  my  boy ;  it's  nothing  of  the  sort,  as  you're 
perfectly  well  aware.  "  A  little  silence  followed  now,  as 
O'Hara  watched  the  brisk  marine  wind  hurry  away  a 
gossamer  cloud  of  his  own  cigar-smoke.  "  I  think  I  see  why 
you  rebuff  me  whenever  I  try  to  get  hold  of  that  sonnet.  " 

"  Rebuff  you  ?  "  murmured  Hubert,  deprecatingly. 

"  We  don't  print  verses  often,"  O'Hara  went  on,  with  a 
decisive  touch  of  stiffness  most  unhabitual  to  him.  "  A 
good  many  poets  would  take  it  rather  as  a  compliment  than 
otherwise  that  we  should  want  any  of  their  work.  But  it's 
very  evident,  Throckmorton,  that  you  don't  like  our  paper." 

"  Frankly,  I  don't,"  said  Hubert,  who  felt  himself  driven 
into  a  corner,  and  left  with  nothing  to  do  except  flash  out 
his  blade.  Usually,  as  his  listener  very  well  knew,  he  was 
the  soul  of  gentleness  and  suavity  ;  he  had  that  instinctive 
politeness  which  is  the  appanage  of  all  true  breeding.  It 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


55 


was  called  "blood"  not  long  ago,  and  in  the  arrogant,  not 
the  merely  scientific  sense  ;  it  is  now  beginning  to  be  recog- 
nized as  an  accompaniment  and  an  essential  of  the  ampler 
moral  temperament.  "  For  manners  are  not  idle,"  sings  the 
greatest  English-speaking  poet  of  the  century;  and  then 
he  goes  on  to  tell  us  how  they  are  the  fruit  borne  by  a  loyal 
nature  and  a  noble  mind. 

"  Personality  in  journalism  is  most  repellent  to  me," 
Hubert  now  went  on.  "  I  seldom  read  newspapers  to  any 
great  extent,  but  I  studiously  keep  away  from  those  in 
which  I  can  hear  either  my  best  friend  praised  or  my  worst 
foe  reviled." 

O'Hara  laughed,  leaning  back  in  his  camp-stool  on  the 
breezy  deck.  "  How  fine  for  us  editors  if  all  readers  had 
the  same  tastes  as  yourself  !  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  bore  we 
find  the  whole  vulgar  necessity.  But  there's  no  resisting  it." 

"  I  should  resist  it  if  I  were  an  editor,"  said  Hubert. 

O'Hara  turned  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "  By 
Jove  ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  ring  in  his  voice  that  meant  the 
most  unstinted  admiration,  "  I  suppose  you  would !  "  He 
was  rather  a  cynic  on  the  subject  of  his  fellow-men,  this 
Callahan  O'Hara,  and  doubted  if  very  many  of  them  would 
stay  their  feet  from  dancing  a  reverential  measure  whenever 
the  guineas  once  began  really  to  jingle.  But  Hubert  was 
one  of  his  beliefs,  and  before  the  quiet  gravity  and  strength 
of  the  latter,  with  his  rich  vein  of  poetry  and  his  immobile 
yet  unostentatious  ideals,  the  Irishman's  misanthropic  theo- 
ries would  somehow  courteously  recoil. 

"  Money  isn't  always  given,  in  this  world,"  O'Hara  went 
on,  "  to  those  who  value  it  the  most.  I  dare  say  you  could 
live  on  a  crust,  Throckmorton,  with  ten  times  more  grace 
than  I  could.  You  might  go  off  into  some  waste  place  and 
have  your  thebdide  there,  and  make  it  delightfully  pictur- 
esque with  your  pilgrim- staff  and  scallop-shell.  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  would  bore  myself  to  death  in  such  .surround- 
ings. I  never  touch  bread;  it's  such  monotonous  eat- 


56  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

ing.  .  .  .  and  I  haven't  for  years  drank  any  water  without 
at  least  a  dash  of  claret  in  it.  Now  that's  precisely  the  way 
in  which  I  stand.  I  want  my  claret.  I  must  have  my 
claret,  even  if  I'm  driven  to  procure  it  at  the  price  of  my 
self-respect." 

While  his  companion  lit  another  cigar  from  the  lurid  ash 
of  its  predecessor,  Hubert  rather  dryly  said  :  "  I'm  glad  that 
my  own  liking  for  red  wine  is  in.no  danger  of  betraying  me 
into  any  such  extravagance." 

He  knew  very  well  that  what  O'Hara  had  meant  as  half 
a  joke  was  a  true  enough  way  of  hitting  off  his  ethical 
relations  toward  society  at  large.  There  was  certainly  very 
little  satisfaction  to  be  found  in  talking  with  such  a  man 
about  the  degeneration  of  the  modern  newspaper.  O'Hara 
would  never  be  able  to  get  any  further  than  this :  the 
demand  for  "  spiciness  "  had  become  imperious,  and  not  to 
supply  "  spiciness  "  was  to  go  without  claret.  Natures  that 
are  selfishly  immoral  are  like  the  dweller  in  the  midst  of  a 
field  wholly  surrounded  by  ditches  ;  his  grasses  and  his 
trees  may  be  green  and  delectable  enough,  but  outsiders 
cannot  possibly  share  his  own  enjoyment  of  them  without 
besmirching  their  boots. 

Long  prior  to  the  landing  of  the  boat,  Hubert  had  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  O'Hara  to  talk  of  other  things.  When 
they  reached  the  iron  pier  the  sun's  ball  of  molten,  seething 
gold,  that  it  would  almost  have  been  blindness  to  gaze  on 
longer  than  a  second,  had  just  touched  the  rim  of  the  hori- 
zon. They  were  driven  straight  to  the  West  End  Hotel, 
and  after  dining,  were  greeted  with  a  magnificent  moon,  that 
flooded  the  vast  expanses  of  treeless  and  cottage-thronged 
shore.  The  piazzas  of  the  hotel  were  swarming  with  people, 
but  in  the  copious  pearly  light  every  face  that  Hubert  gazed 
upon  was  unfamiliar  to  him. 

"No  chance  for  any  fashionable  items  here,"  observed 
O'Hara.  "  The  children  of  Israel  are  having  it  all  their 
own  way." 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


57 


"  And  what  a  superb  time  of  it  they  seem  to  be  having  as 
well !  "  said  Hubert. 

Just  then  a  loud,  gay  laugh  rang  out  at  his  elbow  from  a 
girl  of  about  twenty,  luxuriously  yet  not  gaudily  dressed, 
with  a  face  that  would  have  served  for  a  sultana  in  its  olive 
loveliness,  and  eyes  that  were  dark  stars  of  glory. 

"  They're  welcome  to  their  good  time,"  sneered  O'Hara. 
"  I'm  told  that  in  the  old  days  here  it  was  so  different  for  a 
fellow.  Then  they  kept  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Hubert.  "  I  saw  the  place  then.  It  wasn't 
half  so  vivacious  :  it  was  full  of  New  York  Christians — and 
snobs." 

O'Hara  looked  at  him  with  a  start,  and  then  burst  out 
laughing.  "How  like  you  that  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
always  were  endorsing  unpopular  questions." 

"  Unpopular  !  "  softly  echoed  Hubert,  as  he  glanced  to 
right  and  left,  where  many  other  handsome  feminine  faces 
of  either  a  dusky  or  blond  type  were  visible  in  the  wan, 
penetrant  moonlight.  "Well,  no  doubt  it  all  depends  upon 
one's  line  of  approach.  For  my  part,  I  should  say  that  this 
remarkable  and  very  genial  race  had  the  upper  hand  of  us 
in  almost  everything.  My  limited  experience  has  told  me 
that  they  are  very  apt  to  be  highly  educated.  They  are  cer- 
tainly quite  often  handsome  to  look  upon ;  and — " 

"  What  ?     The  men,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  not  perhaps  from  a  standpoint  of  taste  that  would 
be  held  noteworthy  by  some  dude  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  club- 
window.  Our  ugly  clothes  are  ruinous  to  their  men.  You 
should  see  them  in  the  East." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  a  better  plan  if  they  all  went  there 
and  staid,"  grumbled  O'Hara,  glancing  about  him. 

"I  fancy  they  would  not  think  it  a  better  plan,"  said 
Hubert.  "  Why.  indeed,  should  they  ?  Here  so  many  of 
them  are  rich,  and  so  many  more  of  them  well-to-do." 

"  I  shall  expect  soon  to  see  you  going  about  among  them 
and  having  a  fine  time,"  O'Hara  replied,  with  a  sarcastic 
tang  in  his  tones. 


58  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  That  would  be  quite  impossible,"  Hubert  answered,  in 
his  quiet  way,  which  had  become,  of  late,  a  somewhat  sad 
way  also.  "  They  are  too  exclusive,  too  fond  of  one  another. 
I  don't  deny  that  they  have  many  excellent  reasons  to  be  ; 
Heinrich  Heine  was  one  of  these  reasons,  and  Spinoza  was 
one,  and  Mendelssohn  was  a  third  ..." 

A  little  later,  when  they  had  strolled  toward  the  ocean 
and  entered  one  of  the  small  pavilions  that  skirt  in  such 
numbers  the  whole  Long  Branch  bluff,  O'Hara  declared  to 
Hubert : 

"  You've  a  style  of  saying  things,  at  times,  that  leaves  a 
fellow  in  doubt  as  to  whether  you're  just  sincere  or  not. 
And  yet  in  all  important  things  I've  never  met  a  more  sin- 
cere man.  I  won't  add  that  I  envy  you  your  inflexible 
honesty,  however.  I'm  one  of  those  chaps  who  can  admire 
a  virtue  without  wishing  to  imitate  it." 

"Just,"  smiled  Hubert,  "  as  you'd  enjoy  looking  at  some- 
thing pretty  in  a  shop,  with  'hands  off'  fastened  to  it."  He 
drew  a  long,  ruminative  breath,  and  stared  down  at  the 
molten  silver  of  the  combing  waves.  "  You  speak  as  if  you 
were  making  a  revolt  against  the  venders  of  proverbs  .  .  as 
if  you  didn't  think  honesty  was  (how  do  they  put  it?)  the 
best  policy.  For  my  part,  I'm  honest,  most  probably, 
because  it  would  bore  me  to  be  anything  else.  I  should 
feel  .  .  .  what  sort  of  pungent  simile  can  I  hit  on  to  express 
just  how  I  should  feel  ?  Let  us  say  as  if  I  were  forced  to 
wear  a  coat  that  was  much  too  tight  in  the  armholes." 

"There  it  is  again,"  laughed  O'Hara.  "You  speak  that 
as  if  you  were  only  half  in  earnest.  And  yet  your  code  of 
morals  and  mine  are  like  strength  beside  weakness.  You're 
always  despising  me  for  not  living  the  higher,  nobler  life.  .  . 
Oh,  yes,  you  are  ;  you  needn't  lift  one  hand  in  that  politely 
contradictory  way,  for  I  am  quite  certain  you  are.  Well,  I'm 
free  (o  confess  it,  I  do  not  think  honesty  the  best  policy. 
Of  course  by  honesty  I  mean  unswerving  rectitude,  not  the 
mere  decent  keeping  of  the  eighth  commandment,  and  all 
that  sort  of  rudimentary  thing.  I  revere  it  theoretically ;  but 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  59 

as  an  affair  of  practice  I've  found  that  the  man  succeeds  best 
in  this  life  who  tramples  ideals  into  the  dust  and  strikes  out 
in  his  own  selfish  and  often  pitiless  path." 

"Perhaps  he  does,"  half  assented  Hubert,  slowly  nodding 
his  head.  "That  is,  if  he  really  values  success." 

O'Hara  regarded  him  with  steadiness  for  an  instant.  "  I 
don't  believe  you  value  it,"  he  said. 

"  Success  ?  "  queried  Hubert,  returning  his  gaze.  "  Em- 
phatically I  do  not.  The  conditions  of  life  on  this  planet 
make  it  really  so  absurd  a  failure,  after  all." 

"  But  you  write  your  poems." 

"  I  did  write  .  .  .  my  verses." 

"What!  you've  lost — "  began  O'Hara;  and  then  he 
suddenly  recollected  the  story  he  had  heard  of  how  a  certain 
cool-headed  girl  had  jilted  Hubert  to  marry  a  richer  man. 
With  neat  tact,  however,  he  soon  proceeded,  as  swiftly  as 
possible  :  "  But  of  course  you  can't  have  lost  your  inspiration. 
It's  too  genuine  for  that.  Oh,  I  know,  my  dear  boy  !  Your 
'White  Violets  '  isn't  the  only  piece  of  your  work  that  I've 
thrilled  over.  And  yet  I'm  tempted  to  admit  you  are  one  of 
the  very  few  men  who  despise  worldly  success,  when  I  actu- 
ally think  over  your  poems." 

Hubert  gave  a  little  careless  laugh.  "Ah,"  he  said, 
"  when  you  think  them  over  you  discover  that  they  are  fail- 
ures." 

"  No.  Not  for  me.  I  like  them  just  as  they  are.  But  .  . 
well,  if  they  don't  sell  I  understand  why  they  don't." 

Hubert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  didn't  print  them," 
he  said,  "caring  whether  or  no  they  would  sell.  I  always 
am  my  own  publisher,  in  a  certain  way ;  I  merely  hire,  as 
it  were,  the  imprimatur  of  Messrs.  Prescott  and  Everett. 
They  put  the  books  on  the  market,  as  they  call  it.  But  the 
books  do  not  sell ;  I  happen  to  know  that.  They've  been 
well  received  in  certain  critical  quarters,  but  neither  here 
nor  in  England  is  there  the  standard,  the  criterion  of  criti- 
cism, nowadays,  that  mny  crown  an  author  with  any  distinc- 


60  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

tive  kind  of  laurel.  Even  the  two  or  three  English  Satur- 
day reviews  that  were  once  more  or  less  authoritative  have 
completely  lost  caste  as  judicial  organs.  It  would  seem  as 
if  there  were  no  longer  any  real  critics ;  le  moule  en  cst 
brise." 

"  Still,  the  public  is  a  critic,  after  its  fashion." 

"  I  don't  like  its  fashion." 

"  It  has  golden  opinions  indeed  for  those  whose  books  it 
likes." 

"  No  doubt.     I'm  not  avaricious." 

"  You  mean — you're  prosperous  already,"  smiled  O'Hara. 
"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you  were  not  both  prosperous  and 
indifferent  I  could  tell  you  how  you  could  make  the  public 
love  your  poetry." 

Hubert  looked  mildly  interested.  "The  public  is  just 
now  understood  to  detest  all  poetry,"  he  said. 

"  Never,"  affirmed  O'Hara,  with  an  antagonistic  little 
flourish  of  one  hand,  "  was  there  a  greater  mistake.  You 
mean,  the  public  is  so  wwnnderstood.  Look  how  the  poems 
that  it  loves  go  flying  from  newspaper  to  newspaper,  all 
over  this  vast  country !  No,  my  dear  Throckmorton,  the 
fault  is  with  our  poets,  not  with  our  public." 

"  And  what  is  the  poor  poets'  fault  ? "  asked  Hubert. 
"  That  they  are  poor  poets  ?  or  that  they  write  too  many 
rondeaux,  triolets,  and  vilanelks — write,  in  other  words,  with  a 
lisp  and  a  simper  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  those  little  metrical  mounte- 
banks," replied  O'Hara.  "  I  referred  to  the  few  virile 
fellows  like  yourself  who  care  to  write  verse  nowadays." 

"  Oh,  I  see.     Kind  enough  of  you.     Well  ?  " 

"This  agnosticism,  this  modern  scientific  spirit,  creeps 
into  all  you  do.  It  confuses  the  people  ;  they  don't  under- 
stand it ;  they  believe  that  poetry  should  be  a  kind  of 
religion.  I  saw,  not  long  ago,  that  an  eminent  English 
writer  had  just  stated  poetry  to  be  fully  three-fourths  relig- 
ion." 


DIVIDED  LIl'ES.  6 1 

"  Eminent  writers  of  all  periods  and  all  nations  have  said 
foolish  things/'  returned  Hubert.  "  I  never  have  been  able 
to  see  why  poetry  is  any  more  religion  than  it  is  gastronomy. 
Poetry  is  feeling  and  beauty  expressed  rhythmically." 

"  Not  at  all  a  bad  definition.  Only,  the  wide  throngs  of 
readers  don't  concern  themselves  with  definitions ;  they 
want  to  have  their  hearts  touched  and  their  faiths  quickened 
when  they  read  a  poem." 

"  I  know ;  they  want  it  to  affect  them  like  a  camp-meeting, 
or  something  in  that  way.  Well,  I  don't  write  such  poems." 

"  But  you  could,  my  friend,  if — " 

"  If  I  wanted  to  be  untrue  to  myself.     Yes,  then  I  could." 

"  But  I  mean  this  :  you  could,  by  so  writing,  with  your 
extraordinary  gifts  of  presentment  and  embellishment, 
achieve  a  great  fame." 

"  Thanks."  Hubert  fixed  .his  eyes  on  the  face  of  his 
companion.  The  light  here  in  the  pavilion  shone  dimmer 
than  it  did  outside,  but  O'Hara  saw  very  plainly  how  serious 
yet  how  tranquil  was  the  look  he  wore  as  he  answered  : 
"  There's  not  much  difference,  to  me,  between  the  hypocrite 
in  life  and  the  hypocrite  in  literature." 

O'Hara  felt  those  words  keenly.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
endured  hours  of  the  harshest  unrest  because  of  that  very 
ideal  whose  desecration  he  now  counselled  Hubert  to  com- 
mence. With  him  it  had  once  been  a  beautiful  shining 
lamp  ;  its  lustre  had  pierced  every  corner  of  his  soul.  But 
it  burned  feebly  now,  and  with  occasional  signs  of  total 
extinction.  Again  and  again  he  had  drearily  told  himself 
that  this  change  had  not  been  wrought  by  himself  alone. 
The  world  had  not  let  him  tend  his  lamp  as  he  would  have 
desired.  Cares,  vexations,  disappointments  had  intervened 
to  thwart  and  spoil  the  fulfilment  of  such  holy  office.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  he  would  have  shuddered  to  realize 
that  he  was  ever  destined  to  become  the  Callahan  O'Hara 
of  the  present.  He  had  started  out  with  noble  aims — in 
journalism  (odd  as  it  may  sound)  as  in  everything  else. 


62  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

But  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  heap  too  much  of  the  blame 
on  circumstance,  and  his  own  covert  admission  that  it  would 
not  do  gave  him  some  sharply  repentant  hours.  He  had 
always  envied  Hubert,  and  said  to  his  own  troublesome 
conscience  that  he  too  would  have  preserved  himself  the 
model  of  honor,  of  manliness,  of  gentlemanliness,  with  so 
stout  a  golden  buckler  against  adversity  as  that  which  fate 
had  given  this  most  fortunate  of  young  poets.  On  the  other 
hand,  however,  he  would  sometimes  be  assailed  by  a  little 
haunting  whisper  which  assured  him  that  Hubert,  if  poorer 
than  the  traditional  churchwarden,  would  never  have  stooped 
the  least  fraction  of  an  inch  lower  than  self-respect  would 
have  warranted.  Money  gives  independence,  but  there 
are  some  few  spirits  in  the  world  from  whom  no  poverty  can 
wring  the  meaner  sort  of  humiliation.  O'Hara  had  some- 
how acquired  the  most  secure  confidence  that  Hubert  was 
one  of  these. 

Till  now  they  had  been  alone  in  the  little  pavilion  ;  but 
a  moment  after  Hubert  had  finished  speaking,  two  new- 
comers, a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  entered.  The  former  had 
on  her  bonnet,  and  bore  herself  with  a  somewhat  reluctant 
air,  as  though  she  wanted  to  receive  a  transient  impression 
of  how  the  glittering  and  sobbing  ocean  would  appear  from 
this  dusky  little  coign  of  shelter  on  one  of  its  bluffs.  Her 
motions  indicated  that  she  was  in  a  hurry.  She  stood  at 
the  gentleman's  side  for  a  very  brief  interval,  during  which 
both  of  their  backs  were  turned  to  Hubert  and  O'Hara. 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  night !  "  she  softly  exclaimed.  And 
then  she  slipped  an  arm  familiarly  within  the  gentleman's. 
"  But  come  along,  Jack,"  she  continued  ;  "  we  can  look  at  the 
ocean  by  moonlight  just  as  well  over  in  Elberon  as  here." 

"  But  you  can't  have  me  over  at  Elberon,"  said  Hubert, 
rising. 

The  lady  veered  round  and  recognized  him  with  a  merry 
little  cry.  "Oh,  it's  really  you  !  "  she  said.  "Where  hare 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  63 

you  been  keeping  yourself  this  age  ?  "  And  then  they  both 
shook  hands  with  Hubert. 

A  little  later  all  three  walked  out  of  the  pavilion  together. 
After  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Hubert  rejoined  O'Hara. 

"  Your  friend  is  vivacious,"  said  the  latter.  "  I  mean  the 
lady,  of  course." 

"  Mrs.  Van  Schaick  ?  Yes  ;  she's  a  jolly  little  body.  But 
she  has  the  funniest  reputation  as  an  entertainer.  Perhaps, 
by  the  way,  you've  heard  what  it  is." 

"  I  ?  no." 

"  She's  forever  making  mistakes  ;  and  so  is  he,  for  that 
matter.  They  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  social  solecisms  and 
blunders.  Somebody  once  said  of  Jack  Van  Schaick  that  it 
was  dangerous  to  get  a  divorce  in  the  same  city  with  him, 
because  he  would  be  sure  to  have  the  two  separated 
persons  at  dinner  sooner  or  later.  It  is  really  very  odd 
what  a  sinister  fame  this  couple  have  secured  for  doing  the 
wrong  thing  quite  unintentionally.  I  think  that  as  a  rule 
the  world  miserably  misjudges  us  ;  but  I  fear  that  for  once  it 
is  right  in  what  it  says  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jack  Van  Schaick. 
They're  both  the  dearest,  kindest  of  people.  Nobody  has 
ever  called  Van  Schaick  anything  but  '  Jack '  since  he 
began  to  spend  his  forty  or  fifty  thousand  a  year  in  charm- 
ing entertainments  for  his  myriad  friends.  And  ever  since 
Emma  Van  Alstyne  married  him  she's  been  '  Mrs.  Jack 
Van  Schaick.'  A  good-hearted,  true-souled  woman  as  ever 
lived.  I've  never  been  present  at  the  commission  of  any  of 
their  extraordinary  faux  pas.  But  it  seems  to  be  an  irrefuta- 
ble fact  that  they  do  commit  them.  And  by  the  way,  she 
and  Jack  have  pressed  me  to  dine  with  them  at  their 
Elberon  cottage  to-morrow  night." 

"  You  accepted  ?  " 

"  Yes  ...  I  wasn't  just  sure  whether  I  would  stop  over 
to-morrow  or  not.  But  .  .  .  well,  yes,  I've  accepted." 

"  Let  us  hope,"  said  O'Hara,  jocosely,  "  that  you  wont  be 
the  victim  of  their  celebrated  malapropos  behavior." 


64  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  I  ? "  said  Hubert,  starting  a  little,  and  then  shaking  his 
head.  "  I  ?  Oh,  no.  I've  nothing  to  feel  afraid  of  in  that 
connection." 

Those  words  of  his  afterward  came  back  to  him  .  .  .  He 
went  to  Elberon  on  the  following  day.  The  dinner-party  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jack  Van  Schaick  was  a  rather  large  one. 
About  fifteen  guests  were  assembled  in  the  drawing-room 
of  their  exquisite  cottage,  just  a  stone's-throw  from  the  sea. 
Among  these  guests  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bleakly  Voght. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Hubert  took  into  dinner  a  lady 
whom  he  had  known  for  years  in  New  York  society,  and 
after  the  assemblage  was  seated  at  the  brilliant  dinner-table, 
with  its  gay-shaded  candelabra  and -its  gorgeous  effects  of 
flowers,  he  discovered  that  on  his  left  was — Angela. 

The  intensity  of  the  mistake  threw  a  chill  over  the  entire 
throng.  Hubert  passed  through  several  distinct  moods.  At 
first  he  thought  of  rushing  from  the  table.  Then  he  deter- 
mined upon  self-control  as  his  only  sensible  and  dignified 
course.  Then  he  assured  himself  that  self-control  was  im- 
possible. After  a  little  while  he  became  aware  that  he  had 
exchanged  several  words  with  Angela.  Had  she  spoken  to 
him  first,  or  had  he  been  the  primary  cause  of  their  brief, 
formal,  forlorn  little  episode  of  conversation  ? 

'  I  shall  go  mad,'  Hubert  thought,  a  few  minutes  later. 
Angela  was  talking  to  the  gentleman  at  her  other  side.  The 
lady  at  his  other  side  was  being  voluble,  yet  nervously  and 
consciously  so,  as  he  could  not  help  observing.  He  scarcely 
had  the  power  to  follow  a  word  that  she  said.  He  was 
aware  that  the  eyes  of  the  entire  company  were  fixed  upon 
himself  and  Angela.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  eyes  of 
Bleakly  Voght,  who  sat  just  opposite,  were  fixed  jealously, 
inexorably,  vigilantly  upon  himself  alone. 

Never  was  a  more  awkward  dinner.  Luckily,  Elberon 
afforded  Hubert  a  kind  of  safely  practicable  topic.  He  had 
seen  it  by  daylight,  and  had  admired  the  numberless  bright 
tinted  cottages  that  verged  its  low,  bare  sweep  of  coast, 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  65 

"  It's  like  a  more  familiar  and  companionable  Newport," 
he  remembered  that  he  said.  Did  he  say  it  to  Angela  ?  He 
was  not  sure.  A  perfume  of  roses  floated  to  him  from  her 
breast.  Once  their  eyes  met  in  a  full,  direct  mutual  gaze. 
He  dared  not  speak  to  her  except  in  the  most  threadbare 
commonplaces,  and  yet,  toward  the  end  of  the  repast  he  was 
conscious  that  he  had  said  something  by  no  means  common- 
place. What  had  it  been  ?  His  pulses  were  at  too  unsteady 
a  gallop  for  him  to  determine. 

"  How  have  I  frightfully  wronged  you  ?  Will  you  explain 
to  me  ?  Will  you  find  a  chance,  later  on,  to  do  so  ?  " 

Who  had  spoken  those  words?  Had  it  been  Angela? 
Yes,  it  must  have  been  she  .  .  .  And  now  the  ladies  were 
quitting  the  dining-room.  Perhaps  it  would  soon  be  nec- 
essary for  him  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  Bleakly  Voght ; 
already  the  two  men  had  coldly  bowed  to  one  another. 

Yet,  no.  Van  Schaick  was  now  but  too  poignantly  aware 
of  his  own  and  his  wife's  last  infelicitous  deed.  He  con- 
tinued to  keep  Hubert  and  Voght  separated,  and  without 
showing  either  that  the  least  effort  had  been  made  to  pro- 
duce this  result — an  impulse,  by-the-bye,  in  the  direction 
of  pure  tact  such  as  he  had  not  shown  for  many  months. 

Hubert  smoked  his  cigar  and  talked  with  the  two  or  three 
men  nearest  him.  It  grew  warm,  and  their  host  flung  back 
the  broad  panes  of  a  window  that  opened  upon  a  piazza. 
Straightway  the  sweet  sea-breeze  flowed  into  the  candle-lit 
chamber,  but  only  with  impetus  enough  to  make  the  delicate 
yellow  points  of  flame  waver  slightly  below  their  rich-huecl 
little  shades.  You  could  see  some  high-hanging  festoons 
and  tangles  of  vine  sharp-cut  against  the  crystal  blue 
beyond  them,  and  still  farther  away,  in  its  fairy  tenderness 
and  beauty,  the  spangled  path  of  the  moon  across  the 
ocean. 

Hubert  was  thinking  :  '  I  must  see  her  alone  ;  I   must  find 
the  chance  that  she  spoke  of.     But  how  shall   I  find  it  ?  .  . 
How  ? . .  how  ? ' 
5 


66  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

This  question  began  to  make  a  sort  of  clock-stroke  in  his 
brain,  mingling  with  the  brisk  hum  of  after-dinner  converse 
about  the  Monmouth  races  and  the  last  fortunate  coup 
"  over  at  the  Club  House,"  in  roulette. 


V. 

THE  Van  Schaicks'  abode  was  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
beautiful  in  Elberon.  Its  piazza  surrounded  it  on  all 
sides,  and  though  it  rose,  like  nearly  every  residence  there, 
from  the  centre  of  a  rather  meagre  domain,  cultivation  had 
nevertheless  poured  some  of  her  fairest  favors  upon  this  lim- 
ited tract.  No  other  lawn  wore  grass  of  such  velvet  richness 
or  of  so  living  an  emerald,  and  in  none  other  were  the  par- 
terres radiant  with  blooms  of  such  blended  rarity  and  exuber- 
ance. When  the  gentlemen  at  length  joined  the  ladies,  these 
latter  were  found  dispersed  in  groups,  here  and  there,  along 
the  piazza,  some  of  whose  nooks  were  filled  with  the  densest 
shadow.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Hubert  as  if  Angela  glided 
out  of  the  lucid  air  itself  and  paused  not  far  away  from  him. 
She  immediately  spoke,  and  her  voice  was  vibrant,  but  quite 
low. 

"  Can  you  say  now,"  she  murmured,  "  whatever  there  is  to 
be  said  ? " 

Then,  without  waiting  for  him  to  respond,  she  moved  away 
toward  a  part  of  the  piazza  that  was  much  dimmer  than  this, 
either  because  of  some  sloping  variation  in  the  fanciful  build 
of  the  roof  above  it,  or  through  some  special  opulence  and 
implication  of  its  vines.  Hubert  looked  about  him.  A  few 
people  were  near,  but  even  at  slight  distance  their  faces  had 
become  just  recognizable  and  no  more.  Perhaps  nobody 
had  seen  Angela  address  him.  He  now  perceived  that  there 
was  a  large,  low  window  not  far  from  where  he  had  been 
standing,  and  that  this  window  was  wide  open,  like  the  one 
in  the  dining-room.  No  doubt  Angela  had  slipped  through 
that  from  the  faint-lit  apartment  beyond.  His  brain  felt 
clearer  now.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  drunk 
67 


68  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

(though  he  had  merely  quaffed  a  few  sips  of  champagne  at 
dinner)  and  that  he  was  now  awakening  from  semi-stupor. 

He  passed  along  the  piazza  in  the  direction  that  she  had 
taken.  Knowing  now,  as  he  did  know,  just  how  and  why 
she  had  given  herself  to  Bleakly  Voght,  would  it  not  be 
cruelty  to  tell  her  the  unflinching  truth  ? 

'  Yes,'  his  conscience  answered  him ;  '  and  all  the  more 
cruelty  if  she  still  loves  you,  as  you  have  every  reason  to 
believe  that  she  still  does  love  you  ? ' 

But  that  last  thought,  '  she  still  does  love  you,'  drowned 
conscience.  Besides,  it  seemed  so  hard  for  him  to  forgive 
her  that  mad  matrimonial  step.  Having  yielded  to  Alva 
Averill's  horrid  counselling  was  one  thing;  having  actually 
married  Bleakly  Voght  was  indeed  another  ! 

In  a  short  time  he  found  himself  quite  separated  from  all 
the  other  guests.  The  light  came  very  vaguely  to  this  part 
of  the  piazza.  Off  amid  the  shadow  was  another  shadow. 

It  approached  him.  He  waited  for  it.  He  knew  it  would 
be  Angela.  It  soon  proved  to  be. 

Her  voice,  as  she  now  addressed  him,  was  one  subdued 
tumult  of  excitement.  The  moment  that  he  looked  upon 
her  face  again,  obscure  yet  passionately  eager  and  question, 
ing  in  every  lineament,  he  was  certain  that  he  would  tell  her 
all  she  might  desire  to  hear. 

"  You  accused  me,"  she  began ;  "  there  was  something 
about  your  eyes,  your  tones,  that  made  me  imagine  you — you 
thought  yourself  justified  in  doing  so.  " 

"  Justified  ! "  he  repeated. 

"  And  then  those  words  you  spoke  at  Alva's  funeral. 
I — I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  sought  this  meeting,  even 
after  what  you  said  to-night,  if  you  had  not  said  what  you 
did  say  there.  You  accused  her — Alva !  She  was  my 
trusted  friend.  I  had  always  believed  her  yours.  " 

"  She  was." 

"  Was  ?     You  mean  that—''' 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  69 

"  I  mean  that  I  thought  her  so  until  I  found  out  that  she 
was  the  worst,  the  cruellest,  the  falsest  of  women." 

"  Alva  !     Good  Heavens  !     What  did  she  do  ?  " 

"  What  did  she  not  do  ? "  answered  Hubert,  with  his 
accent,  faintly  though  each  sentence  rang,  betraying  the 
anguish  that  was  now  goading  him  into  unrestrained  utter- 
ance of  the  truth.  "  She  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her  after 
that  accident  happened.  She  was  dying,  and  knew  it. 
She  . .  well,  she  had  cared  for  me.  " 

"  Cared  for  you  ?  "  He  could  see  his  companion's  face 
much  more  clearly  now,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  woe- 
begone naturalness  of  its  innocent  expression  as  she  re- 
peated :  "  Cared  for  you  ?  Why,  how  could  we  mistake, 
either  you  or  I,  that  she  cared  for  us  both  ?  " 

Hubert  stood  pressing  his  lips  together  in  the  dimness  for 
a  few  seconds.  "  I  mean — she  loved  me,"  he  soon  said. 
"  That  was  what  she  had  to  confess  when  she  sent  for  me  on 
her  death-bed." 

"  Loved  you  !  "  shot  from  Angela,  in  a  wild  whisper.  A 
moment  later  she  recoiled  several  steps,  and  her  gaze  flashed 
towards  him  in  the  dreamy  gloom  that  engirt  them  both. 
"  She's  dead,  and  can't  answer  that  charge  ! " 

He  clenched  his  hands  .  .  It  seemed  to  him,  for  a  little 
while,  that  he  hated  the  woman  who  stood  before  him  as 
much  as  he  had  ever  loved  her.  "So,"  he  returned,  "you 
don't  believe  me  ?  Well,  I've  no  proof.  None,  that  is,  unless 
you'll  credit  the  monstrous  treachery  she  practised." 

"  What  treachery  ?  "  Angela  asked.  She  was  searching 
his  face,  now,  as  well  as  the  dusk  would  let  her.  His  old 
adoration  of  her  rushed  upon  him,  thrilling  every  vein,  as  he 
saw  an  involuntary  credence  of  what  he  might  impart  to  her 
light  and  melt  the  sweet,  vague  ovals  of  her  eyes. 

"  A  woman  came  one  day  to  Alva  Averill,"  he  said ;  "  a 
woman  and  a  child." 

"  Yes — I  understand  you." 

"That   woman   knew   nothing   of   me"  he  went  on.     "I 


7O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

doubt  if  she  has  ever  even  heard  of  my  existence.  Alva 
told  you  very  differently,  did  she  not  ? " 

"  Differently  ?     Yes,  she  said  .  .  ." 

"  I  know ;  she  said  that  the  child  was  mine.     It  was  a  lie." 

"  A  lie  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  the  child  was  your  husband's,  and  that  woman  was 
its  mother.  Do  you  wish  proof  of  this  ?  Alva  Averill  told 
it  me  an  hour  or  two  before  her  death,  and  I  believed  her. 
But  that  did  not  prevent  my  searching  it  all  out  afterward. 
I  held  a  consultation  with  the  best  detective  I  could  secure, 
and  at  length  he  brought  me  a  detailed  account  of  the 
woman's  life." 

"One  .  .  that  incriminated  .  .  my  husband?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  may  verify  this  for  yourself.  If  you  desire  it 
at  any  future  time,  I  will  send  you  the  name  and  address  of 
my  assistant,  and  will  instruct  him  to  answer  all  your  ques- 
tions without  reserve." 

She  was  staring  at  him  with  pain  and  terror  blent  on  her 
colorless  face ;  she  had  clasped  her  hands  together  very 
tightly  and  was  holding  them  just  on  a  line  with  her  bosom, 
which  he  could  see  rise  and  fall  in  agitated  way  beneath  its 
laces  and  roses. 

"  Perhaps  I — I  may  ask  you,  some  day,  to  give  me  such 
proof,"  she  stammered.  "  Doubts  may  come  to  me  here- 
after .  .  I  don't  know.  But  now — now,  as  I  look  at  you  and 
hear  you  voice,  I  feel  as  if  every  syllable  you  speak  were 
stamped  with  truth  .  .  ." 

He  smiled,  and  made  a  little  despairing  gesture. 

"  If  you  had  only  believed  in  me  a  short  while  ago !  " 

"  You — you  forget,"  she  faltered. 

"I  forget  nothing,"  he  said.  The  words  hardly  rose  above 
a  whisper,  but  in  spite  of  that  there  was  a  knell  in  them. 

She  began  to  move  her  hands,  one  over  the  other,  while 
not  discontinuing  their  clasp ;  it  was  a  gesture  that  betrayed 
depths  of  perturbation,  notwithstanding  the  slowness  of  its 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  71 

"  You — you  knew  more  of  the  world  than  I,"  she  recom- 
menced. "  It  should  have  been  less  easy  to  deceive  you 
than  me.  If,  as  you  say,  Alva  did  this  sickening  thing,  you 
had  experience  as  a  guard  against  her  ;  I  had  not.  And 
so  .  .  I — I  am  not  alone  culpable." 

"Granted,"  he  replied.  "But  that  the  guile  of  this 
woman  should  have  got  between  you  and  me,  to  push  us 
apart,  is  one  thing.  That  it  ever  should  or  would  have 
driven  you  to  the  marriage  you  made — to  any  marriage,  in 
fact — is  another." 

She  bowed-  her  head,  and  as  she  did  so  one  of  the  jewels 
in  her  hair  darted  a  spiteful  enough  flash  at  him  to  have 
come  straight  from  the  eyes  of  Bleakly  Voght. 

"  And  that  child  was  his"  now  broke  from  her ;  "  that 
woman  was  .  .  ."  There  she  lifted  her  head  again  and  looked 
at  Hubert.  "Oh,  my  God,"  she  gasped,  "what  a  snare  has 
been  set  for  me  !  " 

"  Say  set  for  us  both  !  "  here  fell  from  Hubert.  He  took 
several  steps  nearer  to  her  without  knowing  what  he  did. 
And  now  a  note  of  compassion  pierced  his  tones ;  the  great 
woe  in  her  mien  had  addressed  him  with  such  potency  that 
he  had  no  more  reproaches  left.  "  Angela  ! "  he  softly 
exclaimed  ;  "  we  have  both  been  horribly  wronged  !  Perhaps 
in  a  way  we  are  both  to  blame ;  but  neither  has  been  so  very 
culpable,  after  all.  It  was  she — it  was  that  .arch-hypocrite, 
for  whom  the  grave  that  she  now  lies  in  is  too  decent  a 
resting-place  ! " 

Angela  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  had  suddenly  be- 
come flooded  in  tears. 

"  Ah,  but  that  letter  I  wrote  you  !  "  she  faltered. 

He  bit  his  lip.  "I  should  have  torn  it  in  shreds,  and 
rushed  to  you  afterward.  I  should  have  said  :  '  Angela,  you 
do  not  mean  that  you  are  cold  or  ambitious— _>w/  /  There 
is  some  devilish  pique — some  aching  wound,  behind  every 
line  that  you  have  written  !  Tell  me  what  this  mystery 
means ! '  I  should  have  spoken  so  to  you — and  in  a  trice  all 


72  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

her  villany   would  have  been   laid  bare  to  us.     We  •would 
have  found  it  out  by  the  light  of  our  own  love — by  .  .  ." 

He  had  caught  her  hand,  but  she  said  to  him  quickly  and 
with  a  tremor  of  untold  sorrow  in  the  two  little  words  :  "  No 
— no  !  "  And  then  she  almost  flung  his  hand  away;  yet  be- 
fore she  had  made  up  her  mind  whether  to  hurry  from  him  or 
to  remain  at  his  side  a  brief  while  longer,  his  response  had 
come,  contrite,  touched  with  dignity,  breathing  to  the  ears 
that  heard  it  of  a  familiar  gentle  chivalry  and  high-strung 
control  over  self. 

"  You  are  right.  I  think  we  had  best  leave  one  another. 
Send  me  a  line,  at  any  time,  if  you  want  a  personal  meeting 
with  the  man  who  investigated  all  that  forlorn  .affair  .  .  . 
God  bless  you  ;  may  each  year  of  your  future  life  gain  in 
peace  and  joy  !  Remember  that  I  hold  myself,  in  the  main, 
as  rashly  faulty  as  you  were.  If  it  were  not  for  the  marriage 
you  made  I  would  concede  ten  times  more  that  that — I  would 
admit  that  I  had  been  the  only  culprit,  and  that  you  were 
even  guiltless  by  comparison." 

His  sudden  composure  seemed  to  augment  her  tears. 
They  half  stifled  her  as  she  raised  both  hands  toward  him 
with  timid  yet  fervent  deprecation. 

"  Do  not  ever  think  of  me  hereafter  as  guiltless  !  And  as 
for  my  being  happy  again,  that — that  is  beyond  the  most 
daring  hope  !  .  .  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  my  punishment 
has  already  become  !  "  .  .  .  She  threw  back  her  head  for  an 
instant,  and  there  was  a  desperate  defiance  glittering  from 
her  tear-besieged  eyes  that  made  her  look  of  suffering  all 
the  more  pathetic  to  him.  "  I  never  had  a  meek  nature — 
you  know  that,"  she  swiftly  pursued.  "  But  I've  married  a 
tyrant  whom  the  meekness  of  a  slave  would  not  satisfy.  .  . 
The  future  !  I  grow  almost  mad  when  I  let  my  thoughts 
dwell  on  it !  And  now  you've  turned  the  past  into  even  a 
worse  horror  ! — You've  ..." 

She  paused,  listened  for  a  second,  and  then  dashed  a 
handkerchief  over  her  face,  in  wild  effort  to  wipe  away  the 


D I  TIDED  LIVES.  73 

compromising  evidence  of  her  tears.  Hubert,  like  herself, 
had  heard  the  sound  of  an  approaching  step  ;  it  was  firm, 
deliberative,  yet  rapid.  He  discerned  the  lighted  doorway 
of  a  hall  at  some  little  distance  beyond  them,  and  in  a  direc- 
tion opposite  to  that  whence  the  step  proceeded. 

"  Come  with  me  this  way,"  he  whispered,  and  moved  for- 
ward as  he  spoke,  expecting  that  she  would  at  once  accom- 
pany him. 

But  the  injunction  was  given  too  late.  "  Are  you  there, 
Angela  ?  "  said  a  perfectly  cool  voice  which  they  both  rec- 
ognized as  Voght's. 

"Yes,"  she  managed  to  answer. 

In  another  instant  he  was  close  beside  them.  Hubert 
saw  that  his  naturally  white  face  had  got  a  chalky  tint.  He 
addressed  his  wife  first  "  I  was  wondering  where  you'd 
disappeared,"  he  said. 

"  Neither  of  us  had  gone  very  far,"  Hubert  struck  in,  with 
the  utmost  calm  and  nonchalance  of  manner.  He  aimed  to 
convey  a  double  meaning,  yet  one  which  this  husband, 
whom  he  had  just  heard  called  a  tyrant,  might  find  reassur- 
ing and  even  consolatory,  while  it  was  by  no  means  too 
pointed. 

But  Bleakly  Voght,  as  we  know,  had  but  a  weak  sway 
over  his  own  temper.  Once  it  got  control  of  him,  the 
chances  were  strong  that  he  would  make  himself  either 
obnoxious  or  droll.  Still,  in  the  present  case  it  must  be 
chronicled  to  his  credit  that  he  did  neither.  The  merciless 
mockery  and  amusement  of  two  or  three  women  who  were 
seated,  at  that  moment,  not  by  any  means  far  off,  would  not 
have  spared  him  hereafter,  he  well  knew,  if  he  had  afforded 
them  any  firm  point  d'appui  for  a  "  racy "  dinner-party 
scandal. 

He  showed  Hubert  that  he  was  inwardly  furious,  how- 
ever, as  he  now  answered  in  curt,  frigid  tones  : 

"  This  night-air  is  treacherous  ;    there  has  been  a  change 


74  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

during  the  past  hour.  I  think  it  will  be  more  prudent  if  my 
wife  waits  for  our  carriage  indoors." 

He  offered  Angela  his  arm,  and  as  she  took  it  he  so  stood 
that  she  was  forced  to  turn  her  back  upon  Hubert. 
Whether  or  not  she  succeeded  in  hiding  her  tears  and  the 
traces  of  them  as  she  bade  good-night  to  their  host  and  host- 
ess and  the  other  guests,  Hubert  afterward  had  no  knowl- 
edge. The  carriages  were  all  arriving  and  being  announced 
when  he  joined  Mrs.  Van  Schaick,  for  the  purpose  of  say- 
ing a  quiet  good-night  and  then  slipping  away.  But  the 
Van  Schaicks  did  not  merely  commit  blunders ;  they  some- 
times made  them  worse  by  would-be  extenuation,  reparation, 
and  apology. 

"  Oh,  I  m  so  sorry  it  happened  !  "  Mrs.  Jack  murmured  to 
him,  clasping  his  hand  in  her  own  gloved  one.  She  was  a 
plump  little  creature,  and  her  beady  black  eyes  glistened 
from  a  plump  face,  over  which  the  glossy  black  hair  was 
lifted  high  and  tipped  with  little  curving  feathers,  not  unlike 
the  crest  of  a  guinea-fowl.  "  Oh,  yes,  yes,  Jack  and  I  are 
both  so  sorry  !  But  it  was  his  fault.  Of  course  he  should 
never  have  asked  you,  when  he  knew  of  how  they  were 
surely  coming  and  of  how  you  and  she  were  once  engaged  ! 
I  declare,  it  makes  me  sick  when  I  think  of  all  the  horrid 
things  Jack  does  out  of  pure  forgetfulness.  And  then,  half 
the  time,  people  blame  me.  If  you  recollect,  when  we  saw 
you  over  at  the  Branch,  he  asked  you,  and  not  I.  Still,  7 
should  have  remembered  about  .  .  about  //,  you  know.  But 
it  somehow  escaped  my  mind  too,  although  there's  some  ex- 
cuse for  a  woman  with  a  family,  and  one  who's  head  of  two 
or  three  establishments,  like  me  ....  whereas  Jack,  there, 
he  has  nothing  on  earth  to  do  from  morning  till  night  except 
go  to  clubs  and  drive  and  bet  and  amuse  himself." 

"  There's  really  nothing  for  you  to  feel  distressed  by," 
said  Hubert,  with  all  his  best  air  of  repose  and  polish ; 
"  nothing,  I  assure  you." 

"  It's  quite  horrible  !  "  Mrs.  Jack  gently  wailed,  however, 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


75 


still  detaining  him.  "  Jack's  mistakes  are  constantly  being 
traced  to  me.  We  do,  both  of  us,  commit  them  ;  there 
seems  a  grim  fatality  in  it.  But  then  his  list  is  three  times 
as  long  as  mine.  I'm  sure  this  whole  affair  of  to-night  will 
get  abroad  and  be  called  Mrs.  Jack's  latest ;  you  just  see  if 
it  doesn't.  The  other  day  /  was  accused  of  asking  Willy 
Wotherspoon  whether  he'd  left  that  sweet  little  wife  of  his 
quite  well  at  Bar  Harbor,  when  everybody  knew  she'd  just 
begun  a  suit  for  divorce  against  him  in  Newport.  But  this 
was  Jack,  not  I.  .  .  And  I'm  beginning  to  suspect  that  he  is 
the  one  who  turns  the  tables  on  me  in  that  horrid  way.  If 
he  does,  woe  to  him  !  .  .  And  now  I'm  so  glad  you  don't 
mind  what  has  happened.  It's  so  like  you  not  to  mind ;  you 
always  did  have  such  a  sweetly  amiable  disposition." 

Hubert  felt  a  dread  lest  Mr.  Jack  might  make  an  attempt 
to  smooth  matters  over  with  the  same  volubility  that  Mrs. 
Jack  had  just  employed  ;  so,  without  seeking  for  that  gentle- 
man, he  got  into  the  hired  wagon  that  had  been  sent  for 
him  from  the  hotel  and  was  speedily  driven  back  to  Long 
Branch. 

One  big  star,  as  Hubert  watched  it  during  his  drive,  ap- 
peared to  sparkle  over  the  immense  pallor  of  the  moonlit 
sea  with  scorn  and  irony  in  its  beams.  The  film  had  been 
torn  from  his  wound  again  ;  it  almost  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  feel  it  bleeding,  and  with  his  best  heart's  blood. 

On  reaching  the  hotel  again,  he  was  met  by  O'Hara,  who 
had  been  awaiting  his  return  rather  impatiently. 

"  There  is  hardly  a  soul  here  whom  I  know,"  began  the 
Irishman,  as  soon  as  Hubert  had  consented  to  light  a  cigar 
in  his  company  ;  "  and  the  few  that  I  do  know  are  of  a  sort 
that  I  can't  abide." 

"  Of  what  sort  ?  "  asked  Hubert. 

"  Oh,  the  half-professional  gambler.  I  suppose  the  Club 
House  will  be  packed  to-night,  on  account  of  the  races  this 
afternoon.  A  few  sore-headed  gamesters  have  come  over 
here  to  salve  their  hurts  at  the  card-tables,  and  a  few  tri- 


76  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

umphant  ones  have  been  led  to  exploit  their  vein  of  luck  still 
further." 

"  That  is  nearly  always  the  way  with  the  winning  dealer 
in  hazards ;  he  turns  his  own  worst  foe  the  moment  fortune 
makes  him  her  friend." 

The  cottage-like  structure  of  the  Club  House,  white,  grace- 
ful, airily  filagreed  about  its  roofs  and  porches,  rose  in  the 
moonlight,  not  many  yards  away.  It  had  all  the  outside 
innocence  of  some  rather  unpretending  villa.  But  in  another 
minute  a  gallant  equipage  stopped  before  its  front  gateway. 
The  inmates  had  been  singing  a  kind  of  rowdy  song  in  a 
semi-bacchanal  manner;  they  were  all  young  men,  and  a 
little  closer  view  than  that  which  the  hotel-piazza  afforded 
would  have  shown  that  most  of  them  were  tipsy. 

Hubert  was  in  a  mood  for  any  morbid  excitement,  just 
then.  "  I  haven't  gambled,"  he  said,  "  for  over  four  years  ; 
and  that  last  time  was  one  night  at  Monte  Carlo,  when  I  won 
six  thousand  francs  and  almost  swore  that  I  would  never 
court  the  vulgar  and  vitiating  pastime  again.  But  to-night  I 
— well,  suppose  we  walk  over  and  see  what  the  interior  of 
the  place  is  like  .  .  .  ." 

Bleakly  Voght  had  meanwhile  lost  no  time  in  getting 
Angela  away  from  the  Van  Schaicks'.  She  had  rallied  with 
a  speed  that  surprised  him  and  would  have  produced  the 
sharpest  consternation  if  he  could  have  seen  the  interior 
workings  of  her  tortured  spirit.  But  she  was  by  no  means  the 
first  woman  who  has  known  how  to  mask  agony.  Doubt- 
less the  thought  that  her  name  and  Hubert's  must  be  already 
in  process  of  covert  discussion  nerved  her  toward  new  rigors 
of  self-governance. 

But  she  drew  a  great  fluttering  breath  of  relief  as  the 
carriage  rolled  away  from  the  Van  Schaicks'  door,  bearing 
herself  and  her  husband.  It  was  a  heavy  family-carriage, 
and  its  appearance  amid  all  the  light,  gay,  brilliant  modernity 
of  Elberon  had  evoked  not  a  little  derisive  comment.  But 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  77 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bleakly  Voght  were  not  at  present  the  heads  of 
their  own  household  ;  they  had  come  to  Elberon  as  the  guests 
of  Bleakly  Voght's  maiden  aunt,  Miss  Betsey  Lexington. 
The  latter,  who  possessed  several  millions,  had  for  some 
years  been  expected  to  die  and  leave  her  only  nephew  at 
least  half  of  her  great  property.  But  she  had  not  died  ; 
instead  of  that  she  had  built,  at  a  considerable  distance  back 
from  the  sea-shore,  what  had  been  called  the  single  really 
ugly  house  in  all  Elberon.  Hither  each  year  she  would  ask 
her  nephew,  Bleakly ;  and  now  that  he  was  married  she  held 
it  her  duty  to  include  his  wife  in  the  invitation.  But  Angela 
had  not  pleased  this  gaunt,  gray  old  woman  as  a  bride  for  one 
of  her  own  kin.  She  was  over  seventy  years  old,  and  she 
remembered  New  York  society  fifty  years  ago.  It  was  true 
that  there  had  been  Laights  fifty  years  ago.  Ah,  yes,  she 
admitted  that.  But  a  Laight  had  once  married  his  cook. 
Miss  Betsey  recollected  it  so  well !  It  had  shocked  the 
whole  town,  from  Bowling  Green  to  Canal  street.  That 
cook,  though  not  in  the  immediate  line  of  Angela's  grand- 
parents, had  been,  notwithstanding,  an  uncomfortably 
near  ancestress,  and  Bleakly  ought  to  have  remembered 
it. 

Curiously  enough,  when  some  friend,  rather  free  of  speech, 
pointed  out  to  Miss  Betsey  the  fact  that  Angela's  father  had 
been  a  gentleman  of  precarious  repute,  that  lady  gave  the 
information  hardly  any  heed.  Scampishness  in  a  family  was 
one  thing,  this  logical  product  of  so-called  American  aristoc- 
racy declared.  Where  could  you  find  a  good  old  family 
that  had  been  without  at  least  two  or  three  scamps  ?  They 
were  just  as  certain  to  crop  out  as  drunkards.  But  a 
cook  !  No ;  depravity  was  one  thing— rplebeianism  was 
another ! 

"  You'll  find  Aunt  Betsey  a  type,"  Voght  had  said  to  his 
wife,  "and  a  rather  odd  one.  It's  fast  dying  out ;  it  belongs 
to  the  little  old  provincial  New  York  of  the  past.  But  she's 
a  lady,  and  knows  how  to  be  nicely  hospitable.  We  sha'n't 


78  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

see  much  of  her  ;  she's  nearly  always  in  her  room,  with  gout 
or  something  of  that  sort.  And  these  yearly  visits,  you 
know,  must  be  paid." 

As  the  carriage  moved  to-night  along  the  breezy,  sea- 
scented  road,  Voght  was  the  first  to  speak.  The  coachman, 
like  the  carriage,  was  an  ancient  family-affair,  and  known  to 
be  almost  wholly  deaf. 

"  Do  you  think  you  showed  good  taste  this  evening  ? "  he 
asked. 

Angela  looked  at  his  vague  face,  always  so  pale,  with  its 
hawk-like  nose  and  its  two  little  twinkling  eyes.  She  re- 
peated his  words,  "  Good  taste  ? "  questioningly,  yet  in  a  far 
more  stupid  way  than  he  suspected.  They  were  words  that 
to  her  forlorn  and  shuddering  soul  conveyed  at  that  moment 
scarcely  a  shadow  of  real  meaning. 

"  Oh,"  he  re-commenced  sneeringly,  "  I  dare  say  you'll 
lay  the  whole  matter  at  the  door  of  those  blundering 
Van  Schaicks.  But  I'm  not  speaking  of  that.  I'm  speaking  of 
your  going  off  to  a  lonely  part  of  the  piazza,  after  dinner  was 
over,  and  holding  a  meeting  with  him  there.  It  was  certainly 
the  most  horrible  taste.  A  year  or  two  hence  your  former 
engagement  to  him  might  almost  be  forgotten.  But  I  don't 
propose  that  my  wife  shall  cheapen  me,  like  that,  before  the 
world  at  large.  God  knows  what  you  talked  about  together, 
but  it  was  something  that  had  made  you  as  white  as  a  sheet 
and  had  set  you  crying  like  a  baby." 

He  paused,  with  the  intent  of  giving  her  a  chance  to 
reply.  But  she  remained  Silent — exasperatingly  so,  as  he 
now  hotly  told  himself.  After  a  little  while  he  again 
addressed  her. 

"  I  must  insist,"  he  urged,  "upon  your  telling  me  what  it 
was  that  Throckmorton  said  which  caused  such  agitation  in 
you." 

Angela  started.  She  had  always  endeavored  to  keep 
clearly  before  her  mind  a  conception  of  the  courtesy  and 
allegiance  due  this  man  whose  wife  she  had  become.  For 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  79 

weeks  past  he  had  done  much  to  make  her  forget  both  ;  nor 
did  a  sense  of  her  own  exorbitant  folly  in  having  married 
him  at  all  serve  by  any  means  cogently  as  a  reminder. 

"There  was  something  which  it  was  best  for  me  to  know," 
she  answered,  "  and  he  granted  my  own  request  by  letting 
me  know  it." 

"  Ah  ...  he  met  you,  then,  at  your  own  request." 

Angela  tossed  her  head  a  little.  "  Yes.  I  am  not  at  all 
ashamed  to  make  that  admission  ;  why  should  I  be  ? " 

"  You're  better  able  to  answer  the  question  than  I,"  he 
retorted  acridly. 

"  This  anger  of  yours  is  quite  without  cause,"  she  pro- 
tested. "  I  have  done  nothing  whatever  to  deserve  it." 
She  thought  of  what  he  had  done  to  deserve  her  disgust 
(unless  Hubert's  entire  story  had  been  a  false  one)  and 
leaned  back,  softly  shivering,  against  the  cushions  of  the 
carriage. 

"  I  see,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you  wish  to  avoid  answering  my 
question.  You  haven't  done  so  yet.  Do  you  intend  to  do 
so  ? " 

A  very  bitter  smile  crossed  Angela's  face,  now.  "  If  I 
did  answer  it,"  she  said,  sternly  and  below  her  breath,  "you 
might  regret  that  you'd  ever  asked  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  cried,  so  shrilly  that  the  deaf 
coachman  thought  he  heard  himself  called  and  looked 
round,  waiting  for  a  still  louder  appeal  to  relieve  his  doubts. 

Knowing  (as  by  this  time  she  had  had  reason  to  know)  the 
violence  of  his  temper,  Angela  regretted  the  utterance  of 
those  last  words.  But  it  was  too  late  now ;  she  had 
unloosed  a  hurricane. 

"  You  shall  tell  me  what  you  said  together  about  me — 
against  me,"  rang  his  next  wrathful  sentence.  He  leaned 
his  face  close  to  hers,  and  suddenly  gripped  her  wrist. 
"  You  shall  tell  me,"  he  repeated.  "  Do  you  hear  ?  you've 
let  slip  more  than  you  meant — you've  given  yourself  away 
.  .  .  I'll  make  you  tell  me  what  that  was — I — " 


80  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Just  then  the  carriage  stopped  before  Miss  Lexington's 
residence.  Realizing  that  the  end  of  the  brief  drive  had 
been  reached,  Voght  let  his  fingers  fall  from  Angela's  wrist. 
He  sprang  out  of  the  vehicle,  and  stood  at  its  door,  waiting 
for  her  to  alight. 

But  it  seemed  to  her,  then,  as  if  all  movement  were  impos- 
sible. These  bursts  of  ire  in  him  smote  her  with  greater 
terror  every  time  that  she  witnessed  one  of  them.  She  had 
begun  to  hold  him  in  physical  fear,  distressing  though  such 
attitude  appeared  to  her  own  ideas  of  feminine  dignity. 
But  it  was  of  no  use  ;  the  old  childish  horror  as  of  ogre  and 
ghoul  weighed  upon  her  ;  she  had  had  more  than  one  dream, 
of  late,  in  which  he  had  tried  to  kill  her,  and  from  which 
she  had  wakened  in  a  cold  sweat  of  actual  horror. 

Her  sensations  were  not  far  from  that  just  now.  He  soon 
thrust  his  head  into  the  carriage  and  peered  at  her. 

"  Are  you  coming  ? "  he  asked,  with  each  word  dropping 
from  his  lips  as  though  it  were  leaden. 

"  I — i — can't,"  she  murmured  ;  and  then,  as  he  reached 
out  his  hand  toward  her,  though  not  at  all  in  a  hostile  man- 
ner, she  suddenly  uttered  a  little  scream  of  fear  and  fainted 
completely  away. 

She  awoke  to  find  him  bending  over  her  where  she  lay  on 
one  of  the  drawing-room  lounges.  He  had  carried  her  into 
the  house  himself ;  those  lean,  long  arms  of  his  were 
powerful,  at  a  necessitous  pitch.  He  had  summoned  no 
help  whatever,  though  if  her  swoon  had  continued  longer 
than  the  brief  interval  it  really  occupied,  he  would  no  doubt 
have  clone  so.  The  moment  that  Angela  opened  her  eyes 
she  saw  the  glad  relief  on  his  face. 

"  My  darling !  "  he  said,  kissing  her  more  than  once  ; 
"  are  you  better  ?  It  was  nothing ;  it  was  the  merest  ner- 
vousness. I  behaved  too  harshly  ;  forgive  me,  my  Angela  ! 
Don't  let  us  think  of  it  any  more,  dearest !  I  was  a  fool  and 
a  brute — both.  But  love  made  me  so.  That's  no  excuse,  is 
it  ?  But  forgive  me  just  this  once  !  You  shall  never  tell  me 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  8 1 

a  syllable  that  passed  between  you  and  him — never,  that  is, 
unless  you  choose.  I  want  so  to  have  you  happy  .  .  happy 
always,  my  love,  my  dear,  dear  wife  !  .  .  ." 

This  was  certainly  an  altered  mood,  and  as  such  it 
repelled  Angela  no  less  than  the  antecedent  mood  had 
alarmed  her.  As  soon  as  she  could  rise  she  struggled  up 
from  the  lounge  in  spite  of  his  penitential  embraces.  It  was 
pleasant  to  think  that  this  one  storm  of  tyranny  was  over,  but 
when  might  not  the  next  appear  with  its  rush  and  flare  ? 
She  had  begun  to  understand  that  there  was  no  exemption 
from  the  persecutions  of  such  an  ill-governed  being  as  he 
with  whom  she  had  linked  her  earthly  fate.  At  any  moment 
he  might  dart  upon  her  like  an  inflamed  tiger.  And  his  love 
only  gave  a  more  tropic,  hectic,  even  baneful  character  to 
his  whole  personality.  It  was  like  being  loved  by  something 
uncanny  and  inhuman. 

She  knew  that  she  keenly  hurt  him  by  going  up-stairs 
without  the  least  tender  response  to  his  remorseful  protesta- 
tions. But  if  it  had  been  the  saving  of  her  own  life  (as  she 
afterward  rather  exaggeratedly  told  herself)  she  could  not 
have  addressed  him  in  any  loving  or  even  wifely  way. 
Apart  from  the  affright  which  he  had  roused  in  her  during 
the  homeward  drive,  there  now  rose  up,  as  a  fresh,  miserable 
reason  why  she  should  never  have  committed  the  wild  act  of 
marrying  him  at  all,  that  mother  and  that  child  whose 
wrongs  she  had  laid  at  the  door  of  the  man  whom  she 
devotedly  loved. 

Meanwhile  Bleakly  Voght  lingered  down-stairs.     He  was 
now  even  more  angry  at  himself  than  he  had  lately  been  at 
Angela. 
6 


VI. 


His  wife's  apathetic  treatment  of  him  after  his  own  rather 
hysterical  prayers  for  pardon  had  wounded  him  in  a  most 
sensitive  and  expanded  portion  of  his  moral  anatomy.  We 
all  know  of  what  vagaries  a  really  stalwart  vanity  is  capable. 
Voght  had  taught  his  to  believe  that  Angela  loved  him. 
The  feline  agency  exerted  by  Alva  Averill  had,  it  is  true, 
wrought  distinct  effect.  After  she  had  set  in  motion  by  her 
fatal  duplicity  that  disjunctive  force  which  pressed  poor 
Hubert  and  Angela  so  sadly  if  so  absurdly  away  from  one 
another,  she  seized  the  chance  to  utter  certain  counsels  in 
the  ear  of  Bleakly  Voght  which  not  a  few  men  of  less  vivid 
self-esteem  would  have  regarded  with  indecision  if  not  posi- 
tive belief.  She  had  told  him  that  Angela  had  never  truly 
cared  for  Hubert ;  that  the  girl's  heart  had  for  months  been 
given  in  secret  to  himself,  yet  that  she  shrank  bashfully 
from  all  his  great  social  grandeur.  "Try  her  again,"  the 
smooth-voiced  plotter  had  pursued.  "You  think  she 
repulsed  you  before  ;  it  may  have  been  merely  what  I  have 
endeavored  to  explain ;  and  we  women  know  one  another 
better  than  men  know  us.  Try  her  again  .  .  you  have  been 
in  Europe  since  you  asked  her  the  last  time,  and  she  has 
watched  by  a  dying  father's  bedside — an  experience  not  apt 
to  increase  any  girl's  coquetry.  See  if  I  do  not  prove  right ; 
you're  in  love  with  her  still — you  concede  it ;  this  time  you 
will  win  her  ;  it  will  be  reculer  pour  mieux  sauter  with  you." 

So  it  had  been  ;  and  yet  not  even  the  illusory  veil  of  self- 
importance  could  quite  transform  Angela's  chill  and  grave 
acquiescence  into  the  timidity  of  concealed  adoration. 
Then  there  had  been  that  hasty  rupture  of  the  engagement 
82 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  83 

between  the  girl  and  young  Throckmorton.  Had  she  really 
grown  tired  of  him,  as  Alva  Averill  insisted  ?  When  Voght 
had  mentioned  the  matter  to  his  fiance  during  the  very  brief 
term  of  their  engagement,  she  had  a  parrying  and  even  veto- 
ing little  group  of  responses  ready  at  hand.  Then,  soon 
afterward,  had  come  the  marriage,  and  after  that  there  had 
been  with  Bleakly  Voght  a  gradual  confirmation  of  those 
doubts  and  suspicions  which  had  slept  a  little  while  but 
never  died.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  guessed  in  Angela 
the  repulsion  which  his  presence  exercised  upon  her  that  he 
strove  to  make  himself  (in  fits  of  perverse  and  imperious 
wilfulness)  more  antipathetic  than  ever.  But  in  any  case  he 
would  have  been  hard  to  get  along  with  ;  his  temper  had 
been  a  savage  one  for  years  ;  he  had  already  quarrelled 
with  almost  every  blood-relation  he  possessed  except  his 
Aunt  Betsey  Lexington — and  a  substantial  golden  reason,  as 
some  people  avowed,  alone  kept  him  from  long  ago  having 
added  her  to  the  grim  list  of  his  foes. 

But  however  he  had  thus  far  behaved  to  Angela,  his  love 
for  her  was  intense.  The  explosions  of  his  anger  were 
always  followed  by  episodes  of  tenderness  and  contrition, 
but  never  had  this  result  occurred  with  such  an  accent  of 
complete  self-abandonment  as  to-night. 

"  I've  made  an  infernal  ass  of  myself,"  he  said,  standing 
in  his  aunt's  rich  but  prim  drawing-room.  "  She  cares  no 
more  for  me  than  for  one  of  the  buttons  on  her  glove.  She 
married  me  out  of  pique — nothing  more,  and  I  was  fool 
enough  to  let  her.  She's  in  love  with  that  verse-scribbler 
still,  and  I  don't  doubt  they  were  having  some  sort  of  an 
explanation  when  I  went  round  the  edge  of  the  piazza,  there, 
and  caught  her  bathed  in  tears." 

He  gnawed  his  lips,  and  thrust  both  hands  into  the 
pockets  of  his  baggy,  ill-fitting  trousers,  that  had  known  the 
scissors  of  a  renowned  Piccadilly  tailor,  but  looked,  like 
everything  he  wore,  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  Bowery. 
All  the  latter  part  of  his  by  no  means  youthful  life  he  had 


84  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

been  what  is  termed  a  gentlemanly  gambler.  Cards  were 
his  only  vice,  just  as  it  might  be  said  that  shooting  had  once 
been  his  only  real  amusement ;  for  although  he  liked  a  good 
horse  and  owned  several,  he  nowadays  rarely  rode,  and  did 
not  drive  half  as  often  as  he  was  driven.  Wine  he  took  in 
very  sparing  quantities ;  it  brought  on  a  neuralgia  which  he 
accounted  for  by  reckless  drinking  in  his  youth.  Tobacco 
he  seldom  touched,  as  it  made  him,  in  its  mildest  forms, 
painfully  nervous.  But  cards  had  for  years  been  his  solace 
and  delight — when  stakes  of  an  appreciable  kind  were 
played  for. 

Since  his  marriage  he  had  striven,  and  with  some  success, 
to  control  his  master-passion.  When  he  played  at  the  club 
in  his  bachelor  days,  it  would  frequently  be  dawn  before  lie 
departed  for  home.  This  form  of  diversion  in  a  married 
man  he  had  not  considered  reputable,  however  indulgently 
it  might  be  condoned  in  a  bachelor ;  and  so  he  had  put 
gyves,  as  it  were,  on  his  own  wrists,  and  had  worn  them,  too, 
with  much  stoic  resolve.  Now  and  then  he  had  played,  but 
with  a  curb  on  his  lust,  permitting  none  of  that  old  self-sur- 
render which  treats  time  as  the  slave  all  thorough-paced 
gamblers  regard  him,  and  plucks  its  poppies  from  the  brow 
of  night  to  find  a  wakeful  and  not  soporific  intoxicant  in  the 
dusk  eyes  that  burn  below  them. 

But  now,  at  this  hour,  stung,  cut  to  the  quick,  feeling  that 
he  had  been  duped  by  the  dead  as  much  as  mocked  by  the 
living,  he  felt  a  desire  for  that  one  sort  of  excitement  which 
would  have  power  to  soothe  his  fevered  state.  It  was  still 
hardly  eleven ;  the  Elberon  hotel  was  but  a  short  distance 
away ;  he  could  easily  get  a  conveyance  there  and  have  him- 
self taken  to  the  Club  House  at  Long  Branch,  where,  no 
doubt,  cards  would  be  procurable  as  an  amusement  in  the 
form  of  one  game  or  another. 

He  soon  set  forth  from  his  aunt's  house  with  this  deter- 
mination in  view,  having  first  notified  one  of  the  servants 
that  he  would  probably  not  be  home  until  quite  a  late  hour. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  85 

He  succeeded  in  procuring  the  desired  vehicle,  and  had  him- 
self transported  to  the  Club  House  in  a  brief  space  of  time. 
He  did  not  know  one  of  the  people  assembled  in  the  room 
where  roulette  was  being  played,  but  lingered  there  for  quite 
a  little  while  in  rapt  observation  of  those  who  were  winning 
and  losing  at  this  game.  It  was  one  which  had  always  fas- 
cinated him  ;  his  record  with  regard  to  it,  years  ago,  while 
he  was  abroad,  had  been  picturesquely  disastrous.  He  was 
surprised  to  find  it  going  on  here  in  this  establishment. 
Before  long  he  determined  to  try  his  own  luck.  In  five 
minutes  the  old  gaming  madness  was  upon  him.  He  never 
once  forgot  his  trouble  while  he  continued  to  play,  but  the 
effect  of  the  excitement  he  underwent  was  that  of  some 
potent  nervine.  No  liquor  could  possibly  have  given  him 
the  same  kind  of  exhilaration  as  now  came  to  him  from 
merely  watching  the  red  or  black  figures  on  those  bits  of 
pasteboard  turn  up  in  the  hands  of  the  dealer. 

Few  men  of  large  intellect  have  ever  been  gamblers.  In 
a  manner  Voght  showed  the  narrowness  of  his  mentality  and 
the  resourceless  nature  of  it.  Gaming  is  nothing  but  a  dis- 
eased state  of  avarice,  and  appeals  to  qualities  that  broad- 
minded  beings  rarely  possess.  The  idlers  through  life  are 
those  whom  its  dangers  chiefly  threaten,  and  when  its  grip 
has  once  become  relentless,  the  drunkard's  doom  is  hardly 
a  worse  one  to  contemplate.  Voght  had  long  ago  saved 
himself  from  that  dire  self-forgetfulness  which  brings  ruin  in 
its  wake.  But  you  saw  to-night,  if  you  watched  him  with 
any  closeness  of  attention,  that  his  relations  toward  the  vice 
had  just  grazed  those  of  minion  toward  master. 

One  person,  who  had  entered  the  room  since  he  began  to 
play,  did  watch  him  with  just  such  accentuated  scrutiny. 
This  was  Hubert.  Both  he  and  O'Hara  had  strolled  hither 
from  one  of  the  other  rooms.  After  a  little  while  Hubert 
commenced  playing.  There  was  quite  a  crowd  about  the 
table,  and  although  he  was  stationed  directly  opposite  Voght 
it  was  by  no  means  remarkable  that  the  latter  did  not  imme- 


86  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

diately  perceive  his  presence.  Rather  carelessly,  and  in  his 
quick,  nervous  way,  Voght  flung  four  or  five  checks  upon  a 
certain  card.  At  the  same  moment  Hubert  placed  three 
checks  there.  Voght  glanced  across  the  table  unconcern- 
edly enough,  and  then  gave  a  severe  start  as  he  saw  Hubert. 
The  latter  met  his  irate  eye  tranquilly.  Voght's  hand  hov- 
ered over  the  checks  he  had  just  deposited  on  the  card. 
Then,  with  a  scowl,  he  snatched  them  away.  But  in  doing 
so  he  took  one  of  Hubert's  checks,  though  unwittingly. 
Just  afterward  the  card  won. 

The  dealer  paid  Hubert,  whom  Voght's  action  had  keenly 
annoyed  by  the  spirit  of  school-boy  impertinence  that  I; 
betrayed.  But  the  payment  was  insufficient,  and  Hubert 
said  so.  The  dealer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  paid  on 
two  checks — all  the  card  had,"  he  replied. 

"  I  put  three  checks  on  the  card,"  declared  Hubert. 

"  I  only  saw  two,"  replied  the  dealer,  civilly  but  a  little 
curtly. 

"  But  there  were  three,"  insisted  Hubert. 

Several  other  voices  now  made  affirmation  that  pointed 
directly  to  the  heedless  mistake  of  Voght.  And  then  the 
eyes  of  Hubert  and  Voght  met  once  more. 

"True,"  Hubert  proceeded,  with  firmness  and  calmness 
in  equal  measure.  "  That  gentleman  "  (as  he  indicated  the 
husband  of  Angela  by  a  slight  motion  of  the  head)  "has  one 
of  my  checks.  It  was  unintentionally  taken,  of  course,  and 
will  be  returned  to  me  at  once,  as  I  can't  help  feeling  quite 
certain." 

Voght's  frown  grew  blacker.  He  bit  his  lip  and  stared 
downward  for  an  instant,  while  everybody  intently  watched 
him.  Meanwhile  Hubert's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  his  face ;  it 
was  a  gaze  no  less  demanding  than  gentlemanly.  Suddenly 
Voght's  encountered  it  again.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of 
the  world  not  to  realize  perfectly  that  he  had  now  but  one 
proper  course.  But  his  devilish  temper  had  quite  got  the 
best  of  him.  If  almost  anyone  else  on  earth  except  Hubert 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  8/ 

had  confronted  him  with  the  polite  yet  resolute  avowal  which 
he  had  just  heard,  his  restitution  and  apology  would  have 
been  immediate.  As  it  was,  he  now  retorted,  in  tones  of 
trenchant  insolence  : 

"Oh,  you  claim  the  check,  do  you?  Well,  there  it  is.  I 
don't  believe  in  making  a  fuss  about  such  trifles."  And  then 
he  tossed  a  check  across  the  table,  with  such  violence  that 
its  ivory  disc  struck  Hubert's  hand. 

"  Still,  it  seems  that  you  do  make  a  fuss  about  trifles," 
leapt  from  Hubert,  as  he  allowed  the  white  round  to  roll 
past  him  and  drop  on  the  floor. 

O'Hara's  hazel  eyes  glittered  as  he  stooped  and  picked  up 
the  check,  handing  it  to  Hubert.  Voght  had  cut  him  super- 
ciliously a  year  or  two  before  ;  his  remembrance  of  the  cut 
may  or  may  not  have  intensified  his  attitude  of  championship 
toward  his  friend  just  now. 

"  Right,"  he  said  to  Hubert.  "  The  check  is  your  prop- 
erty. A  civil  way  of  restoring  it  would  have  been  more 
advisable," 

"  It's  no  concern  of  yours,"  exclaimed  Voght,  who  had 
recognized  O'Hara  as  a  "  newspaper  fellow  "  whom  he  had 
met  somewhere  an  age  ago  and  not  thought  worth  bowing  to 
afterward. 

"  No  ;  it  is  a  concern  of  mine,"  said  Hubert  placidly. 

"  Gentlemen,"  called  the  dealer,  with  a  flourish  of  one 
hand  over  his  cards  ;  "  the  game,  if  you  please." 

Hubert  at  once  presented  his  checks  to  the  dealer  and  had 
them  redeemed  in  money.  As  soon  as  this  was  effected,  he 
strolled  out  of  the  room  at  O'Hara's  side.  Meanwhile  the 
Irishman  had  recalled  what  he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in 
recalling  if  his  later  life  had  not  drifted  so  far  away  from  the 
deeds  and  misdeeds  of  the  so-named  patrician  world.  He 
recollected  that  this  Bleak\y  Voght  was  the  man  who  had 
married,  abruptly  and  peculiarly,  the  former  sweetheart  of 
his  friend,  Hubert.  The  two  men  reached  the  outside  porch 
and  stood  there,  for  a  few  moments,  in  silence. 


88  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  What  a  devilish  rowdy  that  fellow  behaved  like,"  O'Hara 
presently  remarked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hubert.  He  took  out  a  cigarette  and  began 
to  roll  it  between  leisurely  fingers.  "  He  has  never  known 
how  to  govern  his  temper.  It  has  come  near  getting  him 
into  trouble  several  times." 

"  It  came  near  doing  so  to-night,"  said  O'Hara,  with  a 
pull  at  his  reddish  moustache.  "  But  you  spoke  up  very 
squarely  to  him  ;"  and  a  gleam  of  that  affectionate  admiration 
which  the  editor  had  long  felt  for  Hubert  was  now  manifest 
in  his  look.  "  You  showed  yourself  his  better  both  in  wit 
and  coolness  .  .  But  I'm  a  little  sorry  that  you  left  the  room 
as  soon  as  you  did.  I  can't  help  wishing  you'd  remained 
a  short  time  longer." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  have  appeared  best,"  answered  Hubert, 
in  a  low  voice.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  it  flashed  upon 
his  companion  that  underneath  his  calm  the  hottest  indig- 
nation might  be  smoldering. 

This  was  indeed  true.  Hubert  was  one  of  the  few  men 
who  believe  in  that  consistent  self-discipline  which  is  not 
only  the  secret  of  inward  repose  but  the  talisman  of  good- 
breeding  as  well.  Still,  there  are  bounds  to  human  patience. 
If  he  had  not  quitted  the  room  when  he  did,  Hubert  was  by 
no  means  positive  that  his  powers  of  restraint  would  not 
have  been  most  roughly  over-taxed.  And  his  philosophy 
admitted  no  cheapening  meekness  ;  he  was  quick  to  resent 
insult,  when  it  really  came,  as  he  was  tolerant  of  rudeness 
until  it  had  passed  those  limits  beyond  which  charity  wars 
with  self-respect. 

"  You  had  the  last  word,  however,"  said  O'Hara,  with  a 
boyish  note  of  triumph  in  his  voice,  "  and  a  quiet  but  effec- 
tive last  word  it  was." 

Hubert  had  lit  his  cigarette,  now.  He  stood  gazing  across 
the  garden  at  the  immense  hotel,  shadowy  in  the  opal  air, 
with  its  vacated  galleries  and  its  diminished  lights. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  89 

"  Still,"  he  said,  "  I  think  that  if  I  had  remained  it  would 
not  have  been  the  last  word." 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  assented  O'Hara.  "The  fellow  is 
such  a  cad,  you  know." 

Meanwhile  Voght  had  gone  on  playing  with  a  recklessness 
that  he  very  seldom  showed,  and  in  quite  a  short  space  of 
time  had  lost  several  hundreds  of  dollars.  He  suddenly 
decided  that  he  would  play  no  further ;  the  absorbing  effects 
of  the  game  were  no  longer  dominant  with  him ;  his  rage 
against  Hubert  grew  as  he  recalled  how  serenely  the  latter 
had  behaved  and  how  entirely  in  the  right  he  had  been. 
With  such  a  man  as  Bleakly  Voght  such  a  fury  as  his  present 
one  was  wholly  explainable.  Never  having  been  crossed  in 
anything,  he  had  found  himself  crossed  in  a  matter  which 
was  of  the  most  vital  concern  to  him.  He  had  been  more 
than  once  abattu,  of  late,  at  the  thought  that  Angela  never 
had  loved  him  and  never  would  love  him.  But  to  feel  the 
growing  conviction  that  Hubert  had  formerly  held  her  heart 
and  still  retained  it,  was  for  one  whose  passions  had  through 
years  been  as  ill-ruled  as  his,  a  goad  of  the  most  savage 
torment.  He  had  a  restless  craving  to  meet  Hubert  again 
and  say  or  do  something  that  would  show  the  full  scope  of 
his  hate.  But  he  was  better  than  this  impulse,  and  it  would 
perhaps  be  but  pure  justice  to  state  that  he  had  curbed  it 
when  he  came  forth  on  the  little  piazza  where  Hubert  stood 
at  O'Hara's  side. 

The  truth  was,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  straight 
home.  He  had  thought  of  walking,  as  the  distance  was  not 
far  and  the  facilities  for  such  a  mode  of  return  were  about 
as  perfect  as  a  macadamized  pathway  bordering  a  breezy  sea 
could  render  them.  He  had  his  overcoat  thrown  over  one 
arm,  and  his  hat  tipped  slightly  sideways  on  the  bushy 
gray  of  his  hair.  The  usual  bulge  was  in  his  shirt-bosom, 
and  his  white  cravat  showed  the  usual  rumpled  laxity.  He 
strode  across  the  piazza  toward  the  steps,  and  had  almost. 
begun  to  descend  when  he  saw  and  recognized  Hubert. 


go  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

In  some  way  it  had  been  found  out  that  Hubert  had  not 
quitted  the  building  ;  and  now,  when  Voght  left  the  roulette 
table  and  went  forth  into  the  open  air,  his  movements  were 
stealthily  watched  by  certain  inquisitive  eyes. 

He  stopped  short  on  seeing  Hubert.  His  lips  twitched 
for  a  second  before  he  spoke.  It  here  occurred  to  Hubert 
that  embarrassment  rather  than  anger  might  just  then  have 
him  in  its  clutch. 

But  no  ;  the  mere  sight  of  Hubert  had  inflamed  him  once 
more.  It  had  brought  with  it  a  vision  of  himself  kneeling  by 
the  lounge  on  which  lay  Angela — his  wife  in  name  yet  not  in 
spirit ;  it  brought  with  it,  too,  the  echoes  of  those  pleadingly 
contrite  words  that  he  had  spoken,  only  to  have  them  treated 
with  the  dead,  indifferent  silence  that  was  worse  than  the 
iciest  disdain. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  quite  bluntly  and  offensively  to  Hubert, 
"  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  I  didn't  intend  to  rob 
you/' 

His  demeanor  was  aggression  itself.  And  for  this  reason 
Hubert  felt  wholly  justified  in  replying,  while  his  composed 
and  stirless  eyes  were  fixed  full  upon  the  glittering  little  gray 
ones  before  him  : 

"Pray,  is  that  meant  for  an  impertinence  or  an  apology?" 

"  The  first  if  you  choose,"  said  Voght.  "  Certainly  not  the 
last." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  quarrel  with  me  ?  "  asked  Hubert. 

Voght  scanned  him  insultingly  from  head  to  foot.  "  It 
seems,"  he  replied,  "as  if  you  wished  to  quarrel  with  me" 

Forms  had  now  gathered  at  the  doorway  leading  onto  the 
piazza.  Some  swift  messengership  must  have  prevailed 
during  the  next  few  seconds,  for  in  a  trice  the  four  or  five 
observers  had  multiplied  themselves  into  twenty  or  possibly 
thirty. 

"  I've  no  wish  to  quarrel  with  you,"  Hubert  replied. 
"  But  I  can't  permit  you  to  address  me  with  that  look  and 
tone,  unless  you  account  for  both.''" 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  91 

"  Account  ?  How  ?  "  queried  Voght,  as  he  came  several 
steps  nearer  to  Hubert. 

The  latter  swept  his  eyes  toward  the  near  hallway  and 
saw  the  throng  that  had  gathered  there.  He  hated  publicity 
of  all  kind ;  he  greatly  deplored  the  chance  of  a  public  brawl 
like  this  ;  nevertheless,  he  was  unflinching  in  his  posture  of 
calm  defiance. 

O'Hara,  before  he  could  make  his  answer,  slipped  to  his 
side  and  stood  there.  Hubert  felt  the  touch  of  the  journal- 
ist's hand  upon  his  arm  as  he  responded  : 

"You  must  account  to  me  as  a  gentleman  for  your  ungen- 
tlemanly  behavior,  or — " 

Here  O'Hara's  voice  sounded  :  "  Or  lose  a  good  deal  of 
the  caste  you  pride  yourself  on  ! " 

"  Is  this  fellow  your  friend  ? "  inquired  Voght,  with  an 
accent  of  extreme  sarcasm. 

"Yes,"  Hubert's  retort  sped.  He  instantly  pushed 
O'Hara  away  from  him,  and  at  the  same  time  rapidly  whis- 
pered :  "  Leave  this  to  me.  Leave  it  to  me — I  beg  of  you, 
my  dear  fellow." 

O'Hara  obeyed  him,  though  glowering  with  discomfiture, 
and  not  retiring  at  all  far  from  his  monitor. 

"That  gentleman  is  my  friend,"  Hubert  now  said  to  Voght. 
"  Tell  me,"  he  suddenly  went  on,  with  a  fiery  dart  or  two 
leaving  his  usually  kind  and  mild  eyes ;  "  are  you  bent  on 
making  a  ruffian  of  yourself  ?  Or  pray  what  are  you  bent 
on  doing  ?  " 

Voght  had  not  seen  the  clustered  men  in  the  near  door- 
way. "  You  and  I  have  met  each  other  to-night  before  now," 
he  hoarsely  said. 

"  True,"  Hubert  returned. 

"  At  .  .  at  the  Van  Schaicks',"  came  Voght's  next  words, 
thickly  and  with  clear  effort. 

"  Yes,  "  said  Hubert.  He  added  :  "  Your  mode  of  address 
is  still  not  that  of  one  gentleman  to  another." 


92  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  I  don't  mean  it  to  be,"  foolishly,  wildly  responded 
Voght. 

Hubert  took  a  deep  breath  and  knotted  both  hands. 
"You  wish  to  insult  me,  then  ? "  he  questioned. 

"I — I  wish  to  tell  you,"  said  Voght,  intimidated  in  spite 
of  himself,  "  that — that  you  behaved.  .  .  "  And  there  he 
stopped,  glaring  at  Hubert. 

"  Well  ? "  came  the  challenging  voice  of  the  pale,  col- 
lected man  who  faced  him. 

"  You  .  .  you  and  my  wife,"  flurrieclly  continued  Voght. 
"  You  know  what  I  saw  there  at  the  Van  Schaicks'.  What 
were  you  saying  to  her  ?  What  right  had  you  to  say  it,  what- 
ever it  was  ? " 

This  puerility,  uttered  so  low  that  no  listener  could  possi- 
bly have  heard  it,  brought  a  smile  of  satire  to  Hubert's  lips. 
In  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  with  an  ungovernable  sense  of 
his  own  excessive  misfortune,  he  responded : 

"  I  was  telling  her  that  you  were  the  father  of  Jane 
Heath's  child,  not  /.  I  was  telling  her  that  the  falsehood 
Alva  Averill  told  about  my  being  the  father  of  this  child  and 
not  you,  had  caused  our  separation — had  caused  her  to  marry 
you  instead  of  myself." 

As  Hubert  spoke  the  last  three  or  four  words  Voght 
recoiled. 

"  It  was  a  lie,"  he  faltered. 

Hubert  advanced  toward  him.  "  You  scoundrel !  "  he 
answered.  And  then  he  struck  Voght  a  strong,  sudden 
blow  between  the  eyes,  that  sent  him  sprawling  wretchedly 
upon  the  planks  of  the  moonlit  piazza. 

"I'm  glad  you  did  it,"  Hubert  heard  O'Hara  say;  and 
then  he  squared  himself  for  a  new  attack  from  Voght,  who 
had  leapt  up  again  and  was  dashing  toward  him.  But  the 
usual  thing  happened  •  people  rushed  in  between  the  com- 
batants and  kept  them  separated. 

"I  shall  be  over  at  the  hotel  if  I  am  wanted,"  Hubert  said 
to  one  of  the  excited  throng  in  a  very  unexcited  way.  Then 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


93 


he  took  O'Hara's  arm  and  the  two  sauntered  off  together. 
Perhaps  even  by  this  time  Voght  would  infuriatedly  have  pur- 
sued them.  As  it  was,  however,  he  had  no  choice  in  this 
matter,  being  surrounded  by  six  or  seven  determined  peace- 
makers. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  done  anything  else," 
said  Hubert  to  O'Hara  as  they  walked  along.  "  Do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed — though  I  will  admit  that  I  didn't  hear  the 
words  which  caused  you  to  strike  him." 

"  He  gave  me  the  lie." 

"  Yes  ?     And  before  that  ?  " 

"  Before  that  ? "  repeated  Hubert,  in  a  peculiar  voice. 
"  Well,  I  said  something  he  didn't  like,  very  probably." 

"  That's  answering  me  tout  bref,  with  a  vengeance," 
laughed  the  journalist.  "Well,  forgive  me,  Throckmorton ; 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  curious." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  they  had  reached  the  hotel. 
"  Shall  you  wait  here  ? "  O'Hara  asked,  as  they  paused  on 
the  long,  dim  front  piazza.  "  Wait  here  ?  Wait  for 
what  ?  "  returned  Hubert. 

"  Why,  for  some  message  from  him." 

Hubert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  I  don't  think  he 
will  send  any." 

"  But  if  he  does  ?  " 

"  I  should  take  no  notice  of  it.a    - 

"  No  notice  ?  "  O'Hara  repeated.  "  Why,  he's  a  man 
who  might,  sooner  or  later,  send  you  a  challenge — unless 
I'm  a  good  deal  mistaken  in  him." 

"  A  challenge  ! "  softly  ejaculated  Hubert.  "  He  would 
be  a  precious  fool  to  do  that ! " 

"  Still,  he  might  do  it,"  persisted  O'Hara. 

"  If  he  did,"  Hubert  gravely  announced,  "  I  should  have 
but  one  course  to  take." 

"  You  mean — fighf? "  inquired  O'Hara,  thinking  that  he 
could  of  course  mean  nothing  else. 

"  Indeed,  no,"  said  Hubert  with  emphasis.     "  Quite   the 


94  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

opposite.  I  should  place  any  challenge  that  I  received  from 
a  fellow-citizen  promptly  in  the  hands  of  the  authorities." 

"You  would  do  that!"  exclaimed  O'Hara.  "No,  no," 
he  went  on  ;  "  it  isn't  like  you  ;  I  can't  believe  it." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  me  yet,"  answered  Hubert,  shaking 
his  head  with  a  smile.  "  I  serve  my  country  by  obeying 
her  laws,  not  by  defying  them.  Besides,  I  loathe  duelling 
as  much  as  I  loathe  murder." 

"  But  there  are  times,"  protested  O'Hara,  "  when  its  prac- 
tise becomes  a  necessity  among  gentlemen.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, this  affair  of  yours  with  Voght — granting  that  Voght 
is  a  gentleman,  which  I  admit  to  be  a  rather  high  flight  of 
the  fancy.  You  struck  him  ;  it  is  not  either  his  or  your 
wish,  most  probably,  to  stand  up  and  play  the  shoulder-hit- 
ter. There  is  a  more  serious  and  surely  a  more  dignified 
way  of  settling  your  difference." 

"  By  trying  to  kill  each  other  ?  I  should  hardly  call  it 
more  dignified." 

"  But  you  don't  want  to  pound  the  fellow  with  your  fists, 
and  be  pounded  in  return,  for  the  space  of  an  hour  or  two  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not.  I  was  wrong  to  strike  Voght  as  I  did. 
I  committed  a  punishable  offence.  He  has  the  power  to 
obtain  full  redress  if  so  inclined." 

O'Hara  lifted  both  hands  amazedly.  "  You  can't  be 
referring,  my  dear  boy,"  he  burst  forth,  "to  a  suit  for 
assault !  " 

"  I  am  so  referring." 

"  But  what  satisfaction  can  the  law  possibly  give  any  man 
under  such  circumstances  ?  " 

"  If  it  does  not  give  him  all  the  satisfaction  that  he  ought 
to  secure,"  replied  Hubert,  with  a  fleet,  unwonted  vehe- 
mence, "  then  it  must  be  a  very  poor  law  and  a  very  need- 
less one." 

"  But  good  heavens,  man  !  "  exclaimed  O'Hara.  "  How 
is  a  gentleman  going  to  call  on  the  law  to  aid  him  where  it's 
a  question  of  personal  honor !  " 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  95 

"  He  should  be  proud  to  have  in  that  law  a  faithful  yet 
impartial  friend.  He  rushes  to  it  if  he  wishes  to  break  his 
father's  will — if  he  wishes  to  procure  a  divorce  from  his 
wife — if  he  is  maimed  by  an  accident — if  he  has  been 
swindled  by  his  neighbor.  As  it  is  both  his  friend  and 
guardian,  he  owes  it  the  duty  of  respecting  one  of  its  most 
just  and  moral  commands.  The  exquisite  nerves  of  his 
'  personal  honor '  should  be  made  to  undergo  a  little  of  the 
pain  that  comes  from  sacrifice.  And  by  the  way,  I  have 
always  observed  that  '  personal  honor  '  is  nowadays  found 
in  a  most  flourishing  state  where  the  subject  is  just  such  a 
spoiled,  selfish,  tyrannical,  arrogant  person  as  Bleakly 
Voght." 

"  Still,"  O'Hara  said,  "  you  don't  expect  a  challenge  from 
him  ? " 

"  No,"  returned  Hubert.  "  I  think  there  are  reasons  for 
his  not  sending  me  a  challenge.  Except  for  these  reasons  I 
can  readily  imagine  his  doing  so." 

Hubert  meant  that  guilty  incident  of  Voght's  life  which 
Mrs.  Averill  had  made  a  means  of  separating  Angela  from 
the  man  she  loved.  And  as  it  turned  out,  he  judged  wisely. 
Voght  did  shrink,  and  solely  on  this  account,  from  the 
publicity  of  an  attempted  duel.  That  name,  Jane  Heath, 
wrought  its  paralyzing  effect  even  upon  a  rancor  as  bitter 
as  was  his  own.  He  knew  the  dastard  character  of  his 
conduct,  in  previous  years,  to  an  unfriended  and  innocent 
girl.  He  knew  that  the  world,  lenient  as  it  sometimes  was 
to  crying  faults,  would  not  pardon  his  share  in  that  bitter 
little  history. 

He  had  never  dreamed  of  the  real  measures  Mrs.  Averill 
had  taken,  and  now,  when  Hubert's  few  words  told  him  the 
whole  hideous  truth,  it  was  like  having  the  earth  split  under 
his  feet.  Some  of  those  who  had  prevented  hini  from  re- 
turning Hubert's  blow,  said  afterward  among  one  another, 
in  sarcastic  criticism,  that  a  good  deal  of  their  force  had 
been  thrown  away  on  a  rather  peaceful  individual.  But 


g6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Voght's  tractability  had  been  simply  the  result  of  his  grow- 
ing dismay  and  dread.  The  mark  of  Hubert's  knuckles 
would  linger  on  his  face  for  days  to  come  ;  pain  was  already 
assuring  him  of  that.  But  the  pain  was  also  an  incessant 
reminder  not  only  that  his  gross  fault  of  the  past  had  some- 
how transpired,  but  that  it  was  now  to  rise  up  and  mock  him, 
in  his  relations  toward  Angela,  as  with  a  devil's  laugh. 

He  hardly  remembered  the  walk  back  to  Elberon.  On 
arriving  at  his  aunt's  house,  he  passed  straight  up-stairs  to 
the  large  suite  of  apartments  which  Mrs.  Lexington  had 
given  himself  and  his  wife,  not  omitting  to  lock  and  bolt  the 
main  hall-door  below.  But  he  had  no  clear  perception  of 
anything  until  he  stood  within  his  wife's  chamber.  The 
traces  of  Hubert's  clenched  hand  had  already  wrought 
havoc  with  his  face  ;  an  ugly  bluish  bruise  had  begun  to 
show  itself  under  either  eye  ;  haggard,  dishevelled,  betray- 
ing acute  mental  perturbation,  he  presented  so  alarming 
an  appearance  that  Angela  almost  shrieked  as  she  saw 
him. 

She  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed.  Feeling  that  sleep  was  im- 
possible for  at  least  two  or  three  hours  to  come,  she  had 
clad  herself  in  a  loose  flannel  gown  whose  pliant  white  folds 
became  her  better  than  she  either  guessed  or  cared,  and  had 
seated  herself  at  a  small  table  on  which  a  lamp  was  still 
burning.  Here  she  found  two  or  three  books,  and  had  been 
for  a  long  time  absently  turning  over  the  leaves  of  one  after 
another,  when  the  sudden  apparition  of  her  husband  set 
every  nerve  in  her  body  wildly  tingling. 


VII. 

"  You  are  up  late,"  he  said,  approaching  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured.     "  I — I  could  not  sleep." 

He  drew  a  long  sigh,  that  had  for  her  a  phantasmal  sound 
in  the  big,  still  room.  "And  I,"  he  said,  with  a  lonely 
solemnity  in  his  voice — "  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  sleep 
again  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him.  His  face  had  always  been  to  her 
a  repelling  one,  but  now  it  almost  made  her  start  with  horror, 

"  You  have  been  hurt,  have  you  not  ? "  she  questioned 
peering  at  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  was  struck.  Throckmorton  struck 
me." 

"  Throckmorton  !  "  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet,  all  color 
flying  from  her  face  in  a  second  and  leaving  it  ghastly. 

Voght  smiled  ;  that  smile  seemed  to  her  like  an  exclama- 
tion of  sneering  triumph.  But  she  felt  immense  relief  after 
he  had  spoken  a  few  more  words. 

"  Ah,  you  need  not  be  so  wildly  distressed,"  he  said.  "  I 
didn't  harm  him  in  the  least.  There  were  people  who  came 
in  between  us  and  prevented  my  returning  his  blow.  But 
afterward  I  felt  as  if  I  could  hardly  blame  him  for  having 
given  it  to  me."  He  smiled  again,  pressing  his  thin  white 
lips  together  with  a  sardonic  tensity. 

Angela  sank  back  into  her  seat,  and  he  drew  a  little 
closer  to  her.  "  I  accused  Throckmorton  of  lying,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  but  I  now  feel  that  I  hadn't  the  shadow  of  a  right 
to  do  so.  What  do  you  think  he  said  to  me  ? " 

"  I— I  have  no  idea,"  she  replied. 

"  I  will  tell  you  •,  "  and  then  he  repeated,  almost  word  for 
7  97 


98  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

word,  the  two  sentences  that  had  left  Hubert's  lips  on  the 
piazza  of  the  Club  House.  Angela  listened  eagerly.  After- 
ward she  bowed  her  head  very  low,  and  sat  thus,  with  her 
gaze  fixed  on  the  floor. 

"  This  is  true  ?  "  Voght  asked.  "  This  is  what  he  did  say 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  ?  .  .  .  Did  you  believe  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  half  whispered,  after  a  little  pause. 

"  But  suppose  I  should  assert  that  it  is  all  a  falsehood  ?  " 
he  flashed,  yet  with  a  certain  insecurity  in  his  very  sternness 
that  betrayed  it  as  a  spurious  outburst.  "  Did — did  any 
woman  come  to  Alva  Averill  ? " 

She  made  him  no  answer.  He  stood  watching  her  for 
some  little  time,  but  she  still  kept  her  head  drooped.  An 
expression  of  the  most  passionate  cruelty  and  jealousy 
crossed  his  face.  He  went  very  close  indeed  to  her,  then, 
and  said,  with  the  well-known  ring  of  rage  in  his  husky 
voice : 

"  It's  all  perfectly  apparent,  now,  just  why  you  married 
me.  Alva  Averill  behaved  like  a  demon,  and  you,  because 
the  man  you  loved  seemed  to  you  villanous,  married  some- 
one else  from  motives  of  punishment,  of  revenge.  I  was  the 
someone  else,  and  you  showed  me  no  more  pity  than  if  my 
peace  of  mind  had  been  made  for  you  to  wreck.  Now  you 
learn  that  you  visited  my  fault  on  Throckmorton — that  I  was 
the  real  culprit,  not  he — and  it  serves  you  right.  You've 
only  received  your  proper  dues."  At  this  point  he  hurried 
to  the  door  of  the  chamber,  waving  one  hand  above  his  head. 
"It's  all  like  a  sort  of  devilish  comedy,  but  you're  booked 
for  your  part,  and  you  must  play  it  out.  Let  Throckmorton 
give  everything  away  if  he  likes.  Other  men  have  been 
foolish  as  well  as  I.  It  was  a  good  while  ago.  You've 
something  to  hate  me  for,  now  you  know  it.  Almost  any- 
thing's  better  than  your  dead  indifference.  Come,  hate  me 
— abominate  me — as  much  as  you  please.  But  you  must. 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


99 


stop  there  ;  do  you  understand  ?  No  matter  what  Fve  done, 
there  are  things  I'd  kill  you  for  if  I  thought  you'd  more  than 
think  them !  .  ." 

He  passed  from  the  room,  and  left  her  trembling  there  in 
her  seat  beside  the  lamp-lit  table. 

The  next  few  days  were  full  of  the  severest  trial  for  her. 
His  disfigured  visage  not  merely  forced  him  to  remain 
indoors  and  refuse  all  the  numerous  visitors  who  called 
upon  him,  but  it  produced  a  condition  of  irritability  that 
eclipsed  even  his  valet's  former  experiences.  Angela  was 
compelled  to  see  certain  of  the  visitors,  though  at  times 
their  voices  would  sound  far  away  to  her,  and  a  sensation 
of  deadly  faintness  would  mingle  with  the  throbbing  pain 
that  scarcely  ever  quitted  her  temples.  Old  Miss  Lexington 
was  deceived  by  some  story  of  a  bad,  dangerous  fall,  and  as 
she  knew  her  nephew  to  be  of  abstemious  habits,  asked  no 
questions  of  the  sort  that  bring  ruin  on  loosely-wrought 
fictions.  There  were  times  when  Angela  felt  as  if  she 
should  go  mad  ;  there  were  times  when  she  almost  regretted 
that  she  did  not.  Her  nature  was  what  might  be  named  the 
romantic  sort;  she  had  the  clearest  sense  of  abstract  duty, 
but  after  all,  when  it  came  to  the  test,  emotion  ruled  her. 
We  have  seen  how  physical  fear  now  and  then  influenced 
her  dealings  with  Voght.  Since  Hubert's  disclosure  and  her 
husband's  corroboration  of  it,  physical  loathing  had  taken 
the  mastery  even  over  fear.  Angela's  purity  and  love  of 
purity  in  others  had  no  pharisaic  touch  ;  it  \vas  perhaps  the 
chief  reason  why  she  had  loved  what  seemed  to  her  this 
element  at  its  whitest,  most  poetic,  and  most  spiritual  in 
Hubert.  He  had  been  to  her  not  merely  an  idealist ;  she 
was  old  enough,  she  was  enough  of  an  American  girl,  to 
understand  that  there  are  men  who  can  be  idealists  in  their 
professions,  their  assumptions,  their  demands,  and  yet  fail 
miserably  of  any  practical  correspondence  to  these  as  regards 
their  material,  sublunar  lives.  But  in  Hubert  she  had  seen, 
or  had  seemed  to  see,  no  vestige  of  either  lip-service,  hypoc- 


TOO  DH'IDED  LIVES. 

risy,  or  cant.  His  religion  had  been  to  keep  himself  un- 
spotted from  the  world,  not  proudly  and  pretentiously,  but 
because  of  an  innate  aspiration  for  the  finer,  wiser,  and 
sweeter  life.  .  .  It  can  hardly  be  thought  strange  that  the 
damnable  falsehood  of  Mrs.  Averill,  once  believed  in,  should 
have  confused,  dizzied,  and  benumbed  poor  Angela.  But 
now  that  she  knew  the  magnitude  of  that  deception  and  of 
her  own  misfortune  she  could  not  blame  herself  too  harshly 
for  having  let  any  rash,  mad  agency  of  pique  push  her 
toward  the  marriage  that  she  had  made. 

'Ah,'  she  would  sometimes  wofully  ask  herself,  'was  it 
not,  after  all,  only  that  Alva  Averill  held  me  weak  and 
wounded  in  her  grasp  ?  There  were  times,  during  those 
few  days,  when  I  had  no  power  to  think  for  myself — when  I 
believe  that  Alva  might  have  led  me  to  do  almost  anything 
(even  to  commit  some  crime)  if  she  had  only  spoken  to  me 
vigorously  enough,  and  used  her  own  will  upon  me  without 
stint ! ' 

From  the  night  when  he  openly  acknowledged  the  sin 
that  she  had  laid  at  Hubert's  door,  Angela's  husband 
appeared  before  her  in  a  new  and  far  more  odious  light.  He 
had  no  longer  anything  to  conceal.  He  recognized  the 
situation,  so  to  speak,  and  flung  off  his  last  remnant  of 
disguise.  Angela  loved  another  man,  and  had  married  him 
because  she  had  held  that  other  man  to  be  guilty  of  pre- 
cisely the  same  fault  which  he  himself  had  committed.  "A 
sort  of  devilish  comedy "  he  had  called  it ;  and  such  it 
indeed  was,  he  now  concluded,  as  he  paced  his  chamber 
overlooking  the  brilliant-tinted  cottages  of  Elberon,  whose 
red,  blue,  or  yellow  tiles  and  shingles  burned  out  against  the 
vivid  sea.  He  was  fond  of  his  wife — yes,  passionately, 
jealously  so.  He  had  got  her,  and  he  meant  to  keep  her. 
He  said  this  alolad  to  Angela,  in  so  many  words,  while  she 
sat  or  stood  beside  him — sometimes  while  she  was  changing 
the  cloths  that  he  kept  almost  incessantly  spread  upon  his 
injured  face.  She  had  made  her  bed  and  she  must  lie  in  it. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  IOJ 

It  wouldn't  be  exactly  a  couch  of  eider-down,  either.  She 
would  have  his  temper  to  contend  with.  Oh,  yes;  he  knew 
he  had  a  temper.  If  any  fellow  came  fooling  about  his 
wife,  as  he  had  so  often  seen  happen  to  the  wives  of  his 
friends,  he  would  say passez  votre  chemin  in  no  time.  As  for 
that  woman,  Jane  Heath,  her  having  dared  to  appear  at  all 
was  a  brazen  outrage.  He  had  settled  two  thousand  a  year 
on  her,  and  had  agreed  to  give  the  child  an  education,  as 
well.  He  wasn't  at  all  sure  as  to  whether  the  child  was  his 
or  no.  It  had  been  a  rather  generous  thing  for  him  to 
behave  as  he  had  done,  any  way,  and  her  popping  up  like 
that  had  been  a  piece  of  abominable  mischief  and  spite. 
Still,  he  couldn't  regret  it  (could  he  ?)  since  it  had  been  the 
means  of  his  securing  the  wife  he  wanted. 

'Oh,  this  is  torture!'  thought  Angela;  and  perhaps  her 
eyes  were  wholly  blinded  to  what  lay  beneath  Voght's 
brutality  and  vulgarity.  A  sharp,  goading  pain  lay  beneath. 
The  insufficiencies  of  his  early  education,  the  indulgences 
that  his  own  wealth  had  showered  on  him,  the  manifold 
failures  to  live  by  any  better  law  of  conduct  than  that  of 
selfish  caprice,  were  all  forces  which  he  felt  now,  and  which 
seemed  blending  themselves  together  in  one  scorpion  whip 
of  torment.  He  did  not  choose  to  show  Angela  that  he  was 
keenly  ashamed  or  that  he  deeply  suffered ;  instead  of  doing 
either,  he  employed  a  bravado  which  came  in  a  certain 
sense  natural  to  him,  and  which  accounted  for  his  apparent 
attitude  of  detestable  candor.  It  would  have  been  greater 
candor  in  him,  after  all,  if  he  had  begged  Angela  on  his 
knees  to  love  him,  and  caught  her  hand  between  both  his 
own,  bathing  it  with  his  impetuous  tears.  But  no ;  he  had 
humiliated  himself  once  in  that  way  and  he  would  not  do  so 
again.  It  was  better  that  she  should  fear  him  than  despise 
him,  he  covertly  argued.  And  if  the  full  truth  had  been 
disclosed  with  regard  to  this  poor  young  wife's  feelings,  he 
would  most  probably  have  discovered  that  she  did  both. 

Hubert  had   asked   O'Hara  not  to  let  a  word  of  the  Club 


102  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

House  quarrel  to  transpire  in  the  weekly  journal  of  the 
latter,  and  O'Hara  would  have  lost  his  editorial  place  rather 
than  have  allowed  the  least  line  of  disclosure  to  appear 
there.  But  the  daily  journals  were  quite  another  matter. 
No  friendly  editors  existed  on  those  whom  Hubert  could 
control.  And  in  a  day  or  two  their  commentaries  appeared, 
copious  and  unsparing.  Both  men  were  of  the  kind  that 
the  modern  newspaper  loves  to  make  a  "  story "  about 
And  here  was  such  a  "  story,"  all  ready  to  be  made  !  The 
real  facts  were  twisted  into  twenty  different  effects  of  com 
bination.  One  or  two  newspapers  gave  Hubert  a  pair  of 
black  eyes  and  sent  Voght  back  to  Elberon  unscathed, 
victorious,  and  superb.  The  occurrence  was  just  what  Long 
Branch  had  been  wanting  to  "  wake  it  up."  The  resident 
journalistic  letter-writers  dashed  for  it  as  a  starving  dog 
dashes  for  a  bone. 

Hubert  was  at  his  country-seat  in  Ponchatuk  when  he 
read  of  his  unhappy  notoriety,  but  Voght  still  lingered  in 
the  house  of  his  aunt  Lexington,  afraid  to  show  himself  as 
far  as  the  threshold  of  its  hall-doorway  until  those  hateful 
purplish  blotched  had  quite  faded  from  beneath  his  eyes. 
Angela's  days  were  now  made  heavier  and  more  miserable 
to  her  than  ever  before.  She  detested  lying  about  the 
affair  to  people  as  she  detested,  in  the  abstract,  all  lying  of 
whatever  sort — as  she  loved  truth  for  its  own  clean,  simple, 
noble  sake.  Her  mother  had  long  ago  died  of  what  certain 
friends  had  called  a  broken  heart,  and  if  this  were  a  fact 
then  nothing  had  broken  the  poor  lady's  heart  except  the 
wilful  mendacity  of  her  light-principled  husband.  Angela 
was  all  her  mother's  child ;  she  loathed  subterfuge  and 
prevarication.  But  she  was  compelled  to  use  both  with 
the  visitors  who  came  curiously  asking  about  her  husband. 
Then  there  was  Voght's  incessant  fury  against  the  news- 
papers to  meet  and  endure,  day  after  day.  There  he  saw 
himself  repeatedly  called  a  coward;  but  it  was  a  fact  that 
he  had  not  a  cowardly  hair  in  his  perverse,  peculiar  head, 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 03 

'and  that  he  had  gone  back  to  his  aunt's  abode,  that  night, 
far  more  because  conscience-smitten  and  morally  disarrayed 
by  Hubert's  unexpected  statements  than  because  he  had  felt 
the  slightest  personal  timidity  toward  his  antagonist. 

The  plain  truth  was  that  Bleakly  Voght,  with  all  his'vital 
faults,  had  for  years  hoarded  in  him  the  elements,  the 
"  makings  "  of  an  excellent  man.  All  his  worst  traits  were 
exaggerations  of  those  evil  tendencies  which  wrong  training 
will  so  disastrously  turn  into  vices.  He  stood  before  the 
world  as  a  living  example  of  what  disaster  may  be  wrought 
in  human  character  by  parental  neglect  and  a  careless 
handling  of  the  powers  of  wealth.  In  the  case  of  Jane 
Heath  he  had  done  a  vile  act ;  but  if  he  had  been  a  vile 
man  the  dread  of  social  censure  would  not  so  have  demoral- 
ized him  as  it  then  did  ;  he  would  have  rallied  and  become 
hotly  bellicose  toward  Hubert  instead  of  taking  what  seemed 
a  flight  to  his  observers  gathered  there  on  the  stoop  of  the 
gambling-house.  But  now,  while  he  sat  and  brooded  on  the 
indignity  dealt  him,  vengeful  throbs  and  shivers  turned  his 
dragging  hours  into  unspeakable  pain. 

'  My  position  as  a  man  of  the  world,  as  a  gentleman,  as 
a  person  of  honorable  status,'  he  mused,  'is  forever  shat- 
tered. I  have  made  an  absurd  mistake.  I  should  have 
staid  there  on  the  piazza  of  the  Club  House  ;  I  should 
never  have  permitted  that  charge  about  Jane  Heath  to  drive 
me  away.  What,  after  all,  is  a  charge  like  that  in  the  pres- 
ent condition  of  society,  to  a  gentleman  ?  I  was  a  fool  to  be 
afraid  that  it  would  harm  me  in  the  opinion  of  society.  .  .  . 
The  real  truth  about  the  matter  is  my  nonsensical  con- 
science. That  wrecked  me  after  Throckmorton  struck  me 
as  he  did.  My  stupid  trouble  is  that  I've  never  been  man 
enough  to  look  at  these  peccadilloes  in  the  proper  way.' 

He  vowed  to  himself,  more  than  once,  while  he  staid  a 
prisoner  within  his  apartments  at  his  aunt's  residence,  that 
he  would  never  for  an  instant  lose  his  temper  with  Angela. 
Yet  he  lost  it  constantly,  and  thus  conducted  himself  in  an 


104  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

explosive  manner  again  and  again.  This  temper  of  his  was 
a  question  of  long-scorned  self-drill.  It  was  a  soldier  that 
had  deserted  the  army  more  than  once,  and  had  been  par- 
doned each  time.  Now,  when  it  came  back  again,  he  had 
no  properly  stringent  pardon  to  give  it ;  it  evaded  even 
his  clemency;  it  had  got  the  audacious  idea  that  he  would 
never  have  pith  enough  in  him  to  order  for  it  a  summary 
hanging. 

At  Ponchatuk,  that  season,  in  his  great,  lonely  home- 
stead, Hubert  tried  repeatedly  to  write.  Each  time  he 
failed.  He  had  had  in  his  head,  for  a  long  time  past,  the 
idea  of  writing  a  poem  in  pungent,  fluent  blank-verse  that 
would  merely  be  a  metrical  expression  of  the  enormous 
nineteenth  century  taste  for  fiction.  In  the  days  that  he 
had  called  his  creative  days — before  he  had  known  whether 
Angela  Voght's  eyes  were  or  were  not  the  rich  blue-gray  he 
had  since  found  them,  he  had  told  himself  that  the  poetic 
languor,  the  "  twilight  of  the  poets,"  apparently  inseparable 
from  this  era,  meant  only  a  curious  misunderstanding  of  its 
literary  demands.  '  They  want  novels,  this  queer  public  of 
ours,'  he  had  more  than  once  mused,  '  and  if  some  very 
able  man  should  care  to  please  them  by  a  volume  of  hardier 
poetic  worth,  of  wittier,  stronger,  less  frivolous  calibre  than 
Owen  Meredith's  "  Lucille,"  I  think  that  he  might  so  com- 
mingle worldly  experience  with  the  pure,  sweet  powers  of 
poetry  that  he  could  please  them  past  all  reach  of  cavil. 
Should  I  ever  be  able  to  perform  such  a  task  ?  Tant  s'en 
faitt !  But  some  day  I  may  try.  If  I  ever  do  I  will  call  my 
work  Glenalvan.  ...  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  like  the  name 
Glcnalvan  as  that  of  my  hero.  He  shall  be  a  sort  of  Childe 
Harold  who  journeys  to  this  country,  not  to  Switzerland  or 
Italy.  He  shall  come  here  as  an  Englishman  filled  with 
splendid  beliefs  and  expectations  about.  America.  He  shall 
teem  both  with  beliefs  and  expectations — and  he  shall  be 
frightfully  disappointed.  There  shall  be  no  dainty  or  dil- 
ettante pessimism  about  him ;  he  shall  simply  be  disap- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 05 

pointed.  He  shall  see  the  politicians  at  Washington  and 
shall  veil  his  eyes.  After  a  little  while  he  shall  unveil  them, 
my  Glenalvan,  and  sing.  He  shall  sing  with  acerbity,  yet 
with  piercing  harmony  ;  that  will  make  my  poem  ;  he  shall 
be  so  fascinating  in  his  cynicism  yet  so  accurate  in  his  criti- 
cism that  the  entire  Republic  will  notice  him.  They  will  do 
more  ;  they  will  buy  him.  Glenalvan  shall  subvert  all  the 
practical  literary  dicta  of  his  epoch.  He  shall  sell  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  copies  before  his  multitudinous 
readers  have  yet  realized  the  aggressive  and  palsying  fact 
that  he  is — poetry.' 

So  Hubert,  in  earlier  and  more  enthusiastic  periods,  had 
addressed  his  own  youthful  and  ardor-teeming  spirit.  Now, 
at  Locustwood,  with  ten  times  more  of  the  technical  power 
to  create  a  Glenalvan  than  when  he  had  dreamed  of  the 
poem  years  ago,  he  strove  to  forget  a  burning  and  poignant 
sorrow  in  writing  of  pangs  that  had  once  seemed  to  him 
easily  conceivable. 

At  first  he  fancied  that  he  could  do  nothing.  Suddenly 
he  made  a  discovery.  He  was  not  dipping  his  pen  into 
ordinary  ink  ;  he  was  dipping  it  into  his  own  heart's  blood. 
The  lines,  many  of  them  exquisitely  musical,  surprised  him 
as  they  grew  beneath  his  hand.  He  mixed  with  the  life  of 
Glenalvan  his  own  anguish  regarding  Angela,  and  yet  he 
had  concealed  it  so  that  even  the  most  merciless  eye  could 
not  prove  detective  enough  to  discover  this  odd  semi-por- 
traiture. No  one  could  actually  recognize  either  his  lost 
mistress  or  himself,  and  yet  he  had  tried  to  photograph 
the  sorrow  and  the  blameworthiness  of  both,  and  to  show 
just  how  forlornly  either  had  lost  faith  in  a  love  that 
should  have  defied  misinterpretation.  Strangely  enough, 
his  former  incapacity  to  write  had  now  wholly  fled.  He 
had  come  here  to  Ponchatuk  and  had  lived  quietly,  see- 
ing a  few  of  the  abominated  newspapers  and  feeling  the 
jibes  of  them,  as  every  decent  civilian  does  feel.  And  yet 


IO6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

he  had  been  able 'to  write — to  finish,  in  the  latter  part  of 
August — his  poem  of  Glenalvan. 

He  gave  the  book  to  his  publishers.  It  was  really  "  a 
book  " ;  it  had  the  bulk  of  a  novel  when  he  took  it  in  his 
hands  and  scanned  its  bright,  neat,  modish  binding.  How 
had  he  been  able  to  write  it  ?  Could  it  have  been  possible 
that  he  had  lived  here  at  this  reposeful  Locustwood,  seeing 
as  in  a  dream  the  smart  traps  of  the  swells  and  the  belles 
flit  past  him  on  the  opposite  road,  and  yet  composed  such 
stanzas  as  these  ?  All  his  passion  for  Angela  was  in  them. 
It  was  not  only  that  the  hero  had  melodiously  declared  him- 
self, in  the  earlier  and  intermediate  pages,  disappointed  with 
America ;  in  the  concluding  ones  he  had  poured  forth  his 
supreme  disappointment  at  life,  destiny,  all  things.  He 
requested  his  publishers  to  bring  it  out  anonymously,  and 
enjoined  upon  them  the  strictest  secresy  as  regarded  his 
authorship. 

.  All  this  time  he  had  been  haunted  by  the  desire  to  seek 
Bleakly  Voght  and  offer  him  certain  apologies.  The  more 
he  had  thought  upon  that  wild,  fierce  impulse  which  had 
caused  him  to  strike  Angela's  husband,  the  more  he  had 
execrated  and  condemned  it.  In  the  fervor  of  composing 
Glenalran  he  had  fully  confessed  to  this  clear  spiritual 
trend.  '  If  I  ever  see  the  man  again,'  he  had  said  to  himself 
repeatedly,  'I  will  ask  his  pardon.  My  blow  was  a  wound  to 
my  own  dignity  ;  I  must  have  slight  confidence  in  my  own 
respect  for  truth  if  I  cannot  calmly  endure  being  called  a 
liar.  I  have  reflected  too  much  on  the  great  meanings  of 
life  to  let  myself  be  swayed  by  any  of  its  petty  formulas.' 

Meanwhile  his  love  for  Angela  did  not  abate.  Glenalvan 
appeared,  was  read  by  a  certain  few,  was  praised  by  certain 
journals,  and  finally,  toward  the  latter  part  of  September, 
was  conceded  to  be  a  book  which  had,  in  spite  of  its  power, 
tombe  a  plat.  And  yet  that  phrase  should  not  truly  be 
applied  to  it.  It  had  shot  too  high  ;  what  really  fine  poem 
does  not  ?  It  had  fallen  flat  only  in  a  popular  sense  ;  it  had 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  IO? 

thrice  the  wit  and  force  of  that  over-estimated  literary  snarl, 
"  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  besides  possessing 
a  story,  a  drama,  a  fine  continuity.  And  yet  it  had  failed. 
Hubert  felt  its  failure  no  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  visita- 
tion of  an  accidental  horse-fly.  He  knew  it  had  not  failed 
with  a  certain  limited  number.  Letters  had  already  reached 
him  (few,  yet  each  of  worth  and  note  to  him)  telling  him 
that  he,  and  he  alone,  was  the  author  of  Glenalvan. 

Suddenly  one  day  it  happened  that  a  New  York  journal  of 
great  weight  and  authority  appeared  with  a  series  of  com- 
plimentary statements  between  four  and  five  columns  long, 
which  declared  that  Glenalvan  was  not  only  a  powerful  but 
an  era-marking  poem.  Its  vigor,  this  journal  affirmed,  was 
past  dispute  ;  its  originality  was  dazzling  ;  its  anonymous 
author  not  merely  equalled  Dr.  Holmes  in  rich,  swift,  sharp 
humor,  but  transcended  him  in  the  nobler  gifts  of  poetic 
authenticity.  Glenalvan  shot  into  success  from  that  moment. 
Hubert,  while  the  yellow  leaves  of  the  locust  trees  were  fall- 
ing in  the  woodland  near  his  peaceful  home,  read  of  the 
great  success  his  poem  had  suddenly  made.  He  thought 
only  of  Angela  while  he  traced  the  flow  of  these  fervid 
eulogies  toward  the  new  poetic  idol.  '  Who  is  this  master  ? ' 
one  man  of  letters  had  began  to  question  of  another,  and 
Hubert  wondered  if  Angela  had  recognized  the  half-hidden 
identity  of  his  half-revealed  passion.  "There  is  nobody  ex- 
cept Mr.  Swinburne,"  affirmed  one  wise  reviewer,  "  who  has 
enough  mastery  of  rhythm  to  have  written  Glenalvan.  And 
yet  Mr.  Swinburne,  with  his  fatal  recent  decadence,  with  his 
monotony  of  'winds'  and  'flowers'  and'  'lights'  and 
'dreams'1  and  'clouds,'  could  never  have  done  anything 
half  so  vivid,  so  robust,  so  actual  as  this  song  of  con- 
temporary life,  experience,  and  passion."  Toward  latter 
October  Hubert  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  Russia  again. 
He  had  wondered  whether  the  quaintness  of  Moscow  might 
not  prove  enlivening  to  fancy  if  not  to  feeling.  The  reclame  of 
Glenalvan  amused  him,  but  it  did  not  by  any  means  satisfy 


IO8  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

him.  He  was  an  artist,  and  he  realized  that  many  of  its 
verses  were  quite  bad  enough  to  have  been  signed  by  that 
brilliant  yet  insolently  lazy  poet,  Browning.  Being  the 
artist  that  he  was.  and  clearly  admiring  all  there  is  to  admire 
in  this  pietist,  genius,  and  poseur  combined,  Hubert  keenly 
regretted  certain  reviews  that  accredited  the  authorship  of 
Glenalvan  to  him  who  wrote  "  Sordello  "  and  "  Feristah's 
Fancies."  Perhaps  the  perusal  of  these  reviews  may  have 
accererated  his  impulse  toward  a  departure  from  American 
shores. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  just  after  he  had  taken  passage  on  the 
Mesopotamia,  the  fastest  transatlantic  steamer  then  afloat, 
Hubert  learned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bleakly  Voght  were  his 
near  neighbors  at  Ponchatuk.  At  first  it  seemed  incredible. 
They!  And  then  he  remembered.  Two  or  three  miles  to 
the  north  of  him  for  years  had  stretched  the  big  estate  of 
Durand  Lexington,  which  this  gentleman  had  left  his  nephew, 
Bleakly  Voght,  at  least  fifteen  years  ago.  A  creek  ran  near 
the  house,  through  a  salt  meadow,  and  all  the  lawns  were 
one  dark  monasticism  of  pines.  You  could  see  Fire  Island, 
a  dim,  pale  streak,  across  the  Great  South  Bay,  from  the 
upper  windows.  And  this  place,  Pineland,  belonged  to 
Angela's  husband  !  Of  course  it  did  !  Dolt  that  he  had 
been,  not  to  recollect  how  the  sweet,  shaded,  dreamy  road 
called  "Lexington's  neck  "  led  to  it,  beginning  not  far  away 
from  his  own  abode.  And  Angela  was  there  ! 

He  postponed  his  visit  to  Russia  that  autumn.  After  all, 
he  told  himself,  the  only  time  for  one  to  go  to  Russia  was 
the  spring.  One  day,  as  he  chanced  to  be  standing  at  his 
own  library  window,  he  discovered  a  little  break  in  the  black 
line  of  pines  that  gleamed  ridgy  and  dense  against  the 
Southern  horizon.  A  short  while  afterward  he  had  directed 
a  small  telescope  upon  this  very  spot,  though  his  view  was 
taken  in  the  most  surreptitious  manner,  from  the  window  of 
a  locked  chamber  up-stairs.  A  portion  of  lawn  and  the  seg- 
ment of  what  might  have  been  a  big,  brown,  commodious 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


ICQ 


country-house  were  the  nearest  approach  of  even  a  visual 
sort  that  he  could  make  to  Angela.  Presently  he  threw 
down  the  telescope  in  disgust,  and  began  to  arraign  himself 
for  having  sought  even  a  transitory  glimpse  of  his  former 
sweetheart. 

'  Confound  it !  '  he  mused,  '  I'm  not  a  fellow  in  'one  of 
Belot's  novels.  It's  none  of  my  business  whether  she  ever 
walks  out  on  that  pine-needle  carpet  or  not.  I  wish  the  old 
telescope  had  never  found  its  way  into  this  old  house.' 

But  he  used  it  the  next  day,  notwithstanding,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next.  All  his  efforts,  however,  were  equally  fruit- 
less and  tantalizing.  Adjust  the  instrument  as  he  would,  he 
could  only  penetrate  so  far  and  no  further  into  the  sylvan 
quietude  that  engirt  the  mansion.  He  compared  himself, 
with  sorrowful  humor,  to  the  man  in  "  The  Diamond  Lens." 

'  Still,  in  my  case,'  he  said  self-correctingly  to  his  own 
thoughts,  '  there  has  been  the  drop  of  water  without  the 
sprite  who  dwelt  there.  She  is  a  memory — a  divine  one — 
and  bides  in  the  realm  of  reverie  alone.  Perhaps  I  am 
fated  never  to  see  the  reality  again.  And  perhaps  (most 
aggravating  of  fancies !)  her  feet  may  often  walk  the 
russet  spaces  of  that  lawn  while  I  watch  as  now,  yet  never 
pass  within  my  field  of  vision.  I  may  be  staring  at  some 
neglected  old  wing  of  the  house  that  no  one  has  lived  in  for 
twenty  years.' 

He  laughed  grimly  to  himself  at  this  last  reflection,  and 
went  and  put  the  telescope  away.  That  afternoon  he  took  a 
ride  on  a  beautiful  thorough-bred  mare  that  he  owned,  named 
Dara,  gentle  as  a  fawn  and  fleet  as  a  hare.  Dara  was  the 
perfection  of  a  saddle-horse,  and  Hubert  had  often  re- 
proached himself  for  using  her  as  little  as  he  did.  Still,  it 
pleased  him  to  own  anything  thus  lovely  and  valuable  in 
horse-flesh  and  not  vaunt  the  possession  of  his  treasure. 
He  so  detested  braggadocio  in  others  that  he  carried  his 
quiet  reserve  in  matters  of  personal  proprietorship  to  what 
some  people  held  the  verge  of  affectation.  And  yet  he  had 


I IO  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

seen  so  much  raw,  coarse  pretension  among  the  good-hearted 
as  well  as  the  bad-hearted  snobs  of  the  world  that  he  could 
not  resist,  now  and  then,  a  deep  and  placid  enjoyment  of  its 
opposite. 

The  afternoon  was  full  of  those  keen,  tingling,  wintry 
hints  that  blend  with  a  mellow  sun  and  a  variegated  vege- 
tation to  make  our  American  autumn  a  season  of  unique 
charm.  Hubert  took  the  "Lexington  neck"  road,  though 
several  years  had  elapsed  since  he  had  thought  of  taking  it 
before.  As  a  boy  he  had  loved  it  for  its  quaint  difference 
from  any  other  tract  of  land  in  the  neighborhood.  There 
were  huge  hemlock  trees  at  intervals  along  its  edge,  and 
their  twilight  boughs  made  the  clayey  soil  of  the  road  a 
bewitching  dusk  even  at  midday,  while  now  and  then  mimic 
pampas  of  ferns  would  seem  as  if  they  only  waited  the  rising 
moon  to  have  Titania  and  all  her  elves  trip  thither  for  a 
fairy  festival.  Hobgoblin-looking  toad-stools  would  spread 
their  mottled  discs  at  the  roots  of  half-decayed  tree-stumps, 
though  the  earth  on  every  side  was  so  humid  and  semi- 
swampy  that  life,  whether  arboreal  or  merely  weedy,  was 
forever  replacing  and  concealing  the  hurts  and  scars  of 
death.  Some  of  the  branch-entangling  oaks  were  bearded 
with  feathery,  drab-tinted  moss  ;  here  and  there  a  cluster  of 
the  choicest  maidenhair  fern  would  strike  the  eye  that  knew 
and  treasured  its  garnet  gloss  of  stem  and  its  ethereal  foli- 
age. As  Hubert  now  rode  along,  with  the  hoofs  of  Dara 
making  muffled  sounds  on  the  damp  yet  firm  level  be- 
neath them,  he  recalled  a  hundred  memories,  not  so 
much  of  boyhood  as  of  early  manhood,  when  that  romantic 
glow  which  is  the  strange  and  sometimes  fatal  birthright  of 
all  poets  had  first  sent  wakening  thrills  through  his  heart. 

With  the  poetic  temperament  a  cult  for  vegetable  nature 
is  always  primary  ;  its  curiosity  concerning  human  nature 
comes  afterward;  it  wins  more  pleasure  from  brooding  over 
a  wilding,  waxen-cupped  flower  that  wastes  her  delicate  glory 
amid  the  dimness  of  some  lonely  forest-haunt  than  in  study- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  \  \  \ 

ing  all  the  growths  of  passion  or  caprice  that  ever  inspired 
a  Balzac's  artistry.  And  so  it  had  been  to  Hubert,  who 
had  known  clays  when  a  red-and-yellow  sunset  was  all  the 
Byzantium  he  desired;  when  a  jungle  of  fortuitous  asters, 
in  the  hollow  of  a  cow-pasture,  served  him  for  the  whole 
Roman  campagna;  when  a  sudden-seen  pool,  glassy  and 
luminous  at  early  evening,  with  a  vague  hay-rick  in  the  back- 
ground, was  all  the  Venetian  lagoon  or  majestic  San  Marco 
that  he  dreamed  of  asking. 

'  How  we  forget  things  !  '  he  thought,  as  he  rode  along 
through  the  rich-scented  glooms  while  the  short  Octo- 
ber afternoon  was  waning.  '  Here  I  have  been  for  years 
calling  Ponchatuk  so  ugly,  and  have  never  recollected  that 
this  curiously  beautiful  part  of  it  was  hardly  a  mile  from  my 
own  door.' 

He  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself  on  the  subject  of 
why  he  had  taken  "  Lexington's  neck  "  to-day,  after  so  pro- 
longed a  discountenance  of  its  beauties.  He  had  done  so 
for  the  purpose  of  gratifying  a  sentiment,  even  if  the  pictur 
esque  little  pilgrimage  should  result  in  nothing  except  a 
sense  of  augmented  nearness.  By-and-by  the  tread  of  his 
mare  smote  dryer  ground,  and  an  open  space  filled  with  the 
pointed  ovals  of  small  cedar-trees  dawned  on  his  sight.  He 
was  dangerously  near  the  home  of  the  Voghts ;  at  a  short 
distance  away  rose  a  gate,  and  behind  this  was  their  domain. 
The  road  now  became  two ;  one  passed  under  the  gate,  and 
one  swept  toward  the  sodden,  soggy  shore  beyond,  winding 
for  a  little  way  past  the  leisurely  silver  creek  with  its 
bunches  of  tarnished  salt-grass,  its  platoons  of  faded  and 
brittle  reeds.  Hubert  here  reined  in  his  horse  and  looked 
round  him.  Off  to  the  left  the  pines  crowded  about  the 
house,  and  still  quite  hid  it  with  their  gaunt,  bristly  flocks. 
To  the  right  one  monstrous  plane  of  meadow-land  slipped 
away  to  meet  a  sky  that  was  full  of  rolling  clouds,  big  and 
colored  like  iron.  But  from  the  changing  blue  rifts  in  the 
heaven  shafts  of  sun  would  slant  brilliantly  upon  the  huge 


112  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

bay  that  faced  our  horseman  as  he  was  now  stationed,  and 
sometimes  make  flying  paths  of  splendor  on  the  waters,  or 
sometimes  turn  two  or  three  sails  in  its  reach  as  white  as 
Annunciation  lilies. 

Suddenly  Hubert  saw  a  shape  coming  toward  him  in  the 
dubious,  flickering  sort  of  light.  It  was  the  shape  of  a 
woman,  and  the  tricksy  winds  that  were  abroad  to-day  had 
unloosened  a  wisp  of  her  hair.  She  turned  so  as  no  longer 
to  face  the  gale,  having  both  hands  lifted  to  the  back  of 
her  head.  As  she  did  so  her  draperies  gave  a  windward 
swing  like  the  canvas  of  a  tacking  yacht,  and  from  the 
loosened  tress  that  she  strove  to  rearrange  there  darted  an 
airy  and  evanescent  gleam  of  gold.  But  Hubert  had  al- 
ready gained  one  quick  glimpse  of  her  delicate  profile  ;  and 
this,  brief  a  view  as  it  proved,  had  told  him  that  she  was 
Angela. 


VIII. 

HE  felt  for  one  instant  as  if  his  blood  were  ice,  the  next 
as  if  it  were  fire.  Almost  immediately  she  managed  to  con- 
fine the  rebellious  lock ;  she  was  coming  toward  where  he 
stood,  still  as  an  equestrian  statue  of  himself ;  she  had  evi- 
dently not  recognized  him.  The  fitful  wind  had  abated  a 
little ;  her  gown  and  her  wraps  fell  once  more  in  their 
wonted  graceful  lines.  The  chill  of  the  brisk  air  had  put  a 
touch  of  pink  warmth  into  her  cheeks.  Her  blue-gray  eyes 
had  sparks  in  them  that  seemed  caught  from  the  blue-gray 
waves  of  the  neighboring  sea.  The  old  enchantment  of  her 
beauty  had  fleetly  and  strongly  captured  him  in  its  thrall. 
He  sprang  from  his  horse  as  she  drew  nearer ;  she  carried 
a  bunch  of  downy  golden-rod  in  one  hand,  and  its  keen  touch 
of  color  lit  up  the  mellow  browns  of  her  costume  in  the  way 
that  painters  love.  Hubert  was  no  painter,  though  he  had 
the  instincts  and  tastes  of  one.  He  perceived,  after  a  few 
more  seconds,  that  she  had  discovered  who  he  was.  Hold- 
ing his  fine  horse,  meek  as  a  house-dog,  lightly  by  the  bridle, 
he  raised  his  hat.  She  had  come  so  close  to  him,  by  this 
time,  that  he  could  see  she  had  grown  pale.  As  he  bowed 
to  her  she  paused  ;  there  were  now  only  a  few  yards  be- 
tween them.  A  most  serious  look  had  overspread  her  face, 
and  she  shook  her  head,  with  an  inexpressibly  pained  effect 
of  veto  and  disapproval. 

"  You  should  not  have  dismounted,"  she  said,  standing 
before  him  with  the  bunch  of  golden  blooms  almost  dropping 
from  her  lax  hold.  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  did.  I — I  wish 
you  would  ride  away."  Her  eyes  burned  toward  him  with 
a  great  eloquence  of  entreaty.  "  You  know  it  is  best, 
Please  do  it." 

8  113 


1 14  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

He  drew  Dara's  head  toward  him  and  stroked  it  softly, 
though  he  did  not  take  his  look  from  her  lovely  appealing 
face. 

"  I  can't  say  that  you  are  wrong,"  he  answered,  with  hesi- 
tation. "  And  yet  .  .  ." 

"  I  am  right — right,"  she  hurried,  leaning  toward  him  with 
great  eagerness  in  gaze  and  mien,  though  not  advancing 
so  much  as  a  step.  "  Please  go ;  please  go  at  once.  I — I 
did  not  want  to  come  here  at  all.  It  was  not  my  wish." 

"  You  remembered,  then,  about  Locustwood  ? " 

"  Remembered  ?     Of  course." 

Hubert  pointed  toward  the  sombre  and  spacious  groups 
of  pines.  "  And  I  forgot  about  that  place  of  his,"  he  re- 
turned. "  It  was  very  strange.  I  ought  to  have  recollected. 
Still,  he  went  there  so  seldom  in  past  summers ;  he  was 
always  abroad,  or  at  Newport,  or  somewhere  like  that. 
From  childhood  I  knew  ;  but  only  a  few  days  ago  I  had 
cause  to  be  vividly  reminded." 

"  You  heard  we  had  come  here  ? "  she  asked  faintly. 

"  Yes  ...  I  have  lived  very  quietly  since  I  myself  came  ; 
I  have  been  leading  a  thorough  vie  casaniere  among  my 
locust-trees.  Otherwise  I  might  have  met  you  driving,  and 
not  had  to  wait  for  my  old  gardener  to  tell  me  that  '  the 
house  over  across  the  neck,'  as  he  called  it,  had  become 
tenanted  by  its  owner  and  his  .  .  wife." 

She  looked  downward  at  the  flowers  that  she  held,  and 
brushed  their  velvet  crests  for  a  moment  with  one  hand. 
As  she  did  so  a  book  dropped  to  the  ground.  He  made  a 
slight  forward  motion,  but  she  stooped  and  picked  the  volume 
up,  replacing  it  beneath  the  folds  of  her  cloak.  And  in  her 
expedition  he  read  not  only  embarrassment  but  a  distinctly 
imploring  significance.  As  it  was,  his  hand  had  just  quitted 
the  bridle  of  his  horse  and  no  more.  He  now  began  stroking 
Dara's  head  again  while  she  brokenly  murmured  : 

"  We  have  not  driven  out  at  all.  My  .  .  husband  has  been 
ill." 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 1 5 

"  Seriously  ?  " 

"  No.  He  has  been  in  much  pain,  however.  He  thought 
this  fine  air  would  cure  him.  Before,  when  he  had  such 
attacks  he  came  here.  He  is  better,  now ;  the  air  has  worked 
wonders  with  him." 

"  And  your  life  has  been  almost  as  lonely,  then,  as  mine, 
has  it  not  ? "  Hubert  said,  after  a  short  yet  pregnant 
pause. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  very  lonely." 

"  You  have  not  lost  your  old  habit  of  reading,  I  see." 

"  No  ...  I  suppose  I  shall  always  keep  that." 

"  And  you've  been  reading  the  new  book,  Glenalvan,  have 
you  not  ?" 

"  Glenalvan  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  a  kind  of  softly  fright- 
ened ring  in  her  voice.  "  Why,  how  did  you  know — ?  " 
And  she  drew  the  book  out,  looking  at  it  flurriedly  for  a 
moment,  while  the  pink  came  with  a  sweet,  rich  rush  into 
her  face  again. 

"  I  recognized  the  cover,"  he  said.  "  I've  read  it,  too. 
Do  you  care  for  it  ?  " 

She  drew  backward  from  him,  clasping  the  book  and  the 
nosegay  between  both  hands  ;  and  now  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
had  taken  that  liquid,  shining  look  which  could  only  mean 
tears. 

"  Oh,  did  not  you  write  it  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  have  felt  so 
certain  it  was  yours  !  " 

"  Why  have  you  felt  certain  ?  "  he  replied.  His  voice 
broke,  but  he  was  unaware  of  this ;  eagerness  to  hear  what 
answer  she  would  give  made  him  unmindful  of  it. 

"  Oh,  a  hundred  reasons  have  caused  me  to  be  convinced 
it  was  yours,"  she  hurried,  quite  self-forgetfully. 

"  Pray  tell  me  one." 

"  First  of  all,  the  story — the  .  .  the  way " 

"The  way  poor  Glenalvan  found  himself  fooled  ?" 

She  started,  and  he  had  never  eeen  her  eyes  wear  the 
passionately  mournful  look  that  filled  them  now. 


Il6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  He  was  not  the  only  one  ! "  came  her  fluttered  cry. 
"  She  was  fooled  as  well  .  .  .  Ah,  you  did  write  it !  "  He 
saw  the  tears  glittering  on  her  lashes,  by  this  time,  as  their 
rain  quickened.  "  And  again  and  again  I've  thought,  while 
I  read  it,  that  perhaps,  in  a  certain  manner,  you  might  have 
written  it  for  me  !  " 

"  For  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  To — to  show  me  that  you  realized  just  how  I, 
too,  had  been  made  the  sport  of  that  woman's  deceit.  .  .  . 
You  did  write  the  poem,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied. 

"  I  knew  it !  "  she  broke  forth,  with  spontaneous,  even 
unconscious  triumph.  "  And  the  newspapers  have  been 
saying  it  was  done  by  this,  that,  and  the  other !  All  the 
while  I  was  so  certain  of  its  being  by  you !  Why,  it's  full 
of  your  personality,  your/afon,  your — " 

She  paused.  A  change  swept  over  her  face.  She  shook 
her  head  excitedly  and  pressed  her  lips  together,  while 
a  frown  of  self-reproach,  of  entreaty,  of  affright,  creased 
her  brows. 

"  All  this  has  been  wrong !  "  she  exclaimed,  petulantly, 
desperately.  "  I've  been  dreading  it — I've  somehow  felt 
that  it  might  happen.  It  can  bring  neither  of  us  the  least 
good ;  it  can  bring  nothing  but  sorrowful  reflections,  remem- 
brances. I — I  shan't  be  happy  for  weeks ;  I — " 

"  Then  you  were  happy  before  you  met  me  ? "  he  struck 
in.  "You'd  grown  contented  with  your  fate  ?  " 

She  made  an  impatient,  despairful  gesture  with  the  hand 
that  held  the  flowers ;  it  waved  him  back  from  her,  though 
he  had  not  changed  his  place  at  his  horse's  side  by  the  least 
fraction  of  a  step. 

"  Contented — yes,"  she  retorted,  with  her  tones  now  a 
tumult  of  gasps.  "  There  has  been  a  certain  kind  of  con- 
tentment. You  know  what  I  mean.  You  know  how  a 
woman  might  strive  to  make  the  best  of  things  when  placed 
as  I  am.  You  know  so  much  about  the  human  heart,  AH 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  \  \  J 

your  poetry  shows  that ;  Gtenalvan  shows  it  even  more  than 
the  other  writings.  You're  wise  enough  to  forgive,  and 
you're  wise  enough  to  be  merciful." 

"  I'm  wise  enough  to  be  miserable,"  he  said. 

"  No — no  ;  that  will  not  do  !  You've  the  whole  world 
before  you." 

"  I've  a  world  of  disappointment  behind  me,  Angela !  " 

"  Ah,  don't  call  me  by  my  name  like  that !  .  .  .  I'm 
going — yes,  I'm  going,  now.  Good-bye.  Try  never  to  see 
me  again.  Try,  really.  In  a  little  while  we  shall  leave  this 
place.  He  is  better,  at  present,  and  we  shall  soon  leave. 
He  has  almost  decided  on  Europe  ;  we  shall  perhaps  pass 
the  winter  in  Nice,  or  somewhere  on  the  Riviera — he  has 
not  decided  about  that."  She  shot  past  him,  and  only 
stopped  when  she  had  gone  several  yards  away  from  him  in 
the  other  direction.  The  wind  had  begun  its  gusty  assaults 
again  ;  it  blew  the  hair  back  from  her  temples,  and  by  dis- 
closing their  sweet  sculptural  pallor,  gave  her  a  new  look  of 
suffering,  anxiety,  dismay.  "  Promise  me,"  sped  her  next 
precipitate  words,  "  that  you  will  avoid  us — avoid  me.  It's 
all  profitless,  mad," — here  a  fragment  of  bitter  laughter  fell 
from  her, — "  and  absurd,  drearily  absurd,  as  well.  Promise 
me,  will  you  not  ?  Just  say  '  I  promise,'  and  I'll  believe 
you ! " 

He  silently  ground  his  teeth  under  the  stress  of  an  agony 
that  every  line  of  her  shape,  every  tremor  of  her  speech  fed 
and  aggravated. 

"  I  promise — yes." 

"  And  you'll  go  away  from  here,  too  ? "  she  eagerly  pur- 
sued :  "  You'll  let  no  more  accidents  like  this  happen  ? 
You'll  promise  that  also  ?  " 

He  laughed,  flinging  the  bridle  loose  upon  the  neck  of  his 
mare,  and  advancing  toward  her  a  very  little.  Dara  never 
stirred,  but  her  dark,  gentle,  humid  eyes  followed  him  with  a 
dumb  wonder  in  their  crystal  depths. 

"I'll  make  no  further  effort  to  see  you,"  he  cried,  with  an 


Il8  DIVIDED  IJl'ES. 

impetuosity  born  wildly  of  his  pain.  "  There — let  that 
suffice  .  .  .  And  you  proved — tell  me  if  I'm  wrong — that 
what  I  said  to  you  about  his  past  course  of  life  was  true — 
that  the  woman,  Jane  Heath,  had  been.  .  .  .  ? " 

"  No,"  she  broke  in,  receding  from  him  as  he  drew  toward 
her;  "no,  I  had  not  any  reason  to  verify  your  statement.  I 
believed  it,  but  even  if  I  had  not  done  so,  his  free  admission 
would  have  confirmed  it  to  me." 

"Ah  !"  exclaimed  Hubert;  "  so  then  he  confessed  all  his 
sins  to  you  ?  You've  shriven  him,  I  suppose,  and  he's  the 
most  contrite  of  penitents  !  " 

A  second  after  uttering  the  desperate  sarcasm  he  regretted 
it.  Her  lips  quivered ;  he  felt  almost  as  if  he  had  struck 
her.  "  Pardon  me  !  "  shot  his  next  words.  "  Oh,  my  God  ! 
if  you  only  knew  my  anguish — if — " 

"  Hush  !"  she  commanded,  and  raised  one  hand  with  a 
gesture  whose  import  he  almost  instantly  afterward  discov- 
ered. The  road  leading  toward  Pineland  was  shut  off,  as 
recorded,  by  a  gate,  only  a  slight  distance  away.  Hubert 
now  perceived  that  a  man  had  just  opened  this  gate  and  was 
coming  forward  to  where  he  and  Angela  both  stood. 

His  first  thought  was  that  the  man  might  be  Voght.  But 
no ;  in  another  moment  he  perceived  that  he  had  been 
wholly  wrong.  Meanwhile  he  had  gone  toward  his  horse 
again.  But  he  did  not  mount.  He  had  no  idea  of  seeming 
to  be  a  fugitive  from  scrutiny.  On  the  contrary,  he  led 
Dara  by  her  bridle  toward  the  spot  where  Angela  still  stood, 
evidently  distressed  at  the  presence  of  the  new-comer. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  softly.  "  You  are  not  alarmed  ? 
You  have  no  fear  of  being  spied  upon  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  only  Mr.  Voght's  servant. 
I  think  he  has  come  to  find  me.  I  »  .  ." 

She  hesitated.  The  man  was  almost  within  speaking  dis- 
tance, now.  To  get  rid  of  her  tears  this  time  was  even  less 
easy  for  Angela  than  it  had  been  there  in  the  moonlight 
at  Elberon.  Doubtless  the  man  saw  them  as  he  now 


DIVIDED  LIVES,  119 

approached  her.  He  had  not  just  the  face  of  a  servant ;  or 
if  so,  of  a  very  capable  one.  He  could  not  have  been  more 
than  thirty  years,  at  the  oldest. 

He  addressed  Angela  in  polite  and  impassive  tones.  He 
had  what  we  Americans  call  the  English  accent.  "  Excuse 
me,  Mrs.  Voght/'  he  said  with  his  low  and  deferential  voice. 
Then  he  ceased  and  gave  a  courteous  glance  at  Hubert,  as 
of  thus  tacitly  asking  the  latter's  permission  to  continue,  no 
less  than  that  of  his  mistress. 

Wretchedly  perturbed  though  Hubert  was,  he  could  not 
but  value  at  its  due  worth  the  entire,  tranquil,  yet  unexplain- 
able  tact  of  the  man's  behavior.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  respectful,  and  yet  nothing  could  have  been  more 
intelligent.  Indeed,  if  it  had  any  fault,  this  was  its  very  per- 
fection. You  might  have  said  to  yourself,  witnessing  it, 
"The  man  knows  too  much  for  a  servant ;"  just  as  some 
adept  in  the  art  of  acting  might  see  a  trivial  part  of  one  or 
two  lines  performed  so  admirably  as  to  declare,  with  suspi- 
cion amid  his  praise,  "  No  supernumerary  ever  did  that." 

Almost  at  once  (having  allayed  her  agitation  as  best  she 
could)  Angela  said  :  "  Well,  Bradbourne,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Voght  was  restless  about  your  stopping  away  so 
long,  ma'am,  and  sent  me  to  find  you,  if  I  could,  and  ask  if 
you'd  return  to  the  house." 

This  was  more  in  the  style  of  the  real  servant,  and  yet 
somehow  a  doubt  might  have  remained  as  to  whether  Brad- 
bourne  were  not  cultivated  rather  beyond  his  outward  seem- 
ing. Hubert  would  hardly  have  given  him  a  second  thought 
had  he  not  appeared  at  so  malapropos  a  time.  Afterward 
events  made  his  image  ineffaceable  from  memory.  It  was 
that  of  a  slender,  supply-knit  man,  with  a  short,  close-clipped 
auburn  beard  and  reddish-gleaming  eyes.  He  was  so  far 
from  being  commonplace  that  almost  everybody  noticed  him 
and  found  an  antagonism  between  what  might  be  called  the 
emotional  index  of  his  face  and  the  drilled  formality  of  his 
air  as  a  menial. 


120  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"Very  well.  You  may  say  that  I  will  join  Mr.  Voght 
presently,"  Angela  returned.  .  .  "  Stay,  Bradbourne,"  she 
continued,  as  if  some  new  idea  had  flashed  upon  her,  "  I 
will  go  back  with  you  now — at  once."  Her  demeanor  was 
full  of  a  decision,  a  firmness,  that  seemed  the  product  of 
effort,  and  yet  was  none  the  less  cogent  because  factitious. 
Hubert  had  no  sooner  heard  her  use  these  different  tones 
than  he  sprang  upon  his  horse.  While  he  gathered  toward 
him  the  reins  on  Dara's  neck,  he  heard  the  same  voice  as  it 
now  spoke  to  him,  and  with  a  collectedness,  a  self-possession 
that  there  was  no  misinterpreting. 

"  Good  day.  I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant  ride  back. 
I'm  sure  you  will,  though,  in  this  nice,  breezy  weather." 

Hubert  raised  his  hat.  .  .  Without  any  other  than  this 
mute  reply  he  let  his  mare  take  him  fleetly  toward  the 
shaded  road  that  led  homeward.  The  brief  October  day 
was  already  waning.  Before  he  had  regained  Locustwood 
through  those  elfish  reaches  of  forest,  he  would  hear  the  first 
shrill  wrangles  of  crickets  and  katydids  preluding  the  first 
scintillant  small  autumn  stars. 

Angela  went  back  to  where  her  husband,  lonely  and  uneasy, 
awaited  her.  As  she  entered  his  room,  on  an  upper  floor  of 
the  great,  rambling  house,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  holding  a 
half-crumpled  magazine  in  one  hand  and  a  half-smoked  cigar 
in  the  other. 

"  You  staid  a  terrible  time,"  he  said  querulously.  "  What 
on  earth  kept  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  such  pleasant  weather,"  she  answered,  beginning 
to  undo  her  wraps,  "  I  walked  further  than  I  expected." 

"  Pleasant  weather  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  shiver,  tossing 
his  cigar  into  the  big  wood-fire  that  crackled  not  far  away. 
"  I  think  it's  grown  cold  as  Greenland." 

"  You're  not  so  well  ?  "  she  asked  patiently,  and  with  an 
intonation  that  some  hospital-nurse  might  have  used  in  one 
of  her  professional  rounds  among  the  sick  in  her  ward. 


DI VIDED  LIVES.  1 2 1 

"  No.     Those  pains  have  come  on  again." 

"You've  smoked,"  she  said,  more  critical  than  accusative. 
"  You  know  that  was  wrong." 

"  I  thought  it  helped  this  infernal  neuralgia,  the  other 
day.  But  I  see  I  was  wrong ;  it's  made  me  worse  this  time. 
Confound  the  weed — I  wish  I  hadn't  lighted  it.  It's  got 
me  so  nervous  I  could  jump  out  of  the  window.  .  .  I  shall 
want  you  to  rub  my  head  again  ;  that  eases  me  more  than 
anything  else." 

"  Very  well,"  acquiesced  Angela. 

The  huge  fire  that  he  had  caused  to  be  built  in  the  old- 
fashioned  fire-place  had  heated  the  room  so  that  it  made  her 
own  temples  throb  while  she  passed  her  fingers  in  swift, 
steady  motion  to  and  fro  on  various  parts  of  his  aching  head. 
She  had  now  and  then  tried  to  be  jocose  about  this  task, 
which  had  grown  an  every-day  one  with  her  of  late ;  slie  had 
called  it  his  "  magnetic  shampoo,"  and  once  had  told  him 
that  she  believed  she  must  set  up  a  kind  of  professorship, 
and  call  herself  a  cerebro-manicure. 

All  this  had  struck  him  as  droll,  and  he  had  laughed  most 
heartily  at  it  while  the  tender  nepenthe  that  for  some 
occult  reason  her  fingers  knew  how  to  bestow  would  soothe 
him  past  all  telling.  After  she  learned  .that  she  could  amuse 
him  amid  his  sufferings,  pity  made  her  seek  new  methods 
of  doing  so.  But  in  a  little  while  she  discovered  that  the 
search  involved  no  tax  upon  ingenuity.  He  was  willing 
enough  to  laugh  at  all  her  jokes.  Now  and  then  he  would  be 
peevish,  as  we  have  just  seen,  but  the  cause  of  such  out- 
bursts was  nearly  always  her  own  absence — her  failure  to 
be  at  her  post,  which  was  either  close  to  his  bedside  or  his 
chair. 

The  illness  which  had  seized  him  shortly  after  they  left 
Long  Branch  had  wrought  in  him  changes  of  the  most  acute 
kind.  His  sufferings  at  first  had  been  beyond  description ; 
there  were  times  when  the  torture  in  his  brain  had  been  so 
exquisite  that  he  had  prayed  the  puzzled  and  distressed 


122  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

physicians  (who  shrank  from  anaesthetics  in  too  great  quan- 
tity) to  mercifully  end  his  life.  Then  had  come  gradual  relief, 
and  then  the  sense  of  Angela's  quiet,  steadfast  devotion. 

She  had  almost  hated  him  before  his  illness  began.  But 
there  is  some  mysterious  law  of  our  relations  with  our  fel- 
low-beings that  forbids  us  to  hate  those  whom  we  help. 
Loathe  our  foe  as  we  may,  nothing  can  so  quickly  dissipate 
such  loathing  as  to  do  him  a  service.  There  were  times 
when  Angela  bent  above  her  husband's  bed,  after  having 
soothed  him  into  slumber  by  the  music  of  her  own  voice,  a 
dearer  music  to  him  than  even  any  golden  crash  that  might 
come  from  the  orchestras  of  Paradise — there  were  times 
like  these  when  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  almost  loved  him. 
He  had  needed  love  so  piteously  in  the  sharpness  of  his 
affliction  !  And  then  the  discipline  of  pain  had  developed 
in  him  more  than  one  amazingly  fine  quality.  His  occa- 
sional fortitude  and  endurance  did  more  than  merely  astonish 
his  wife  ;  they  roused  her  loyal  admiration. 

When  a  man  like  Voght  has  been  half-spoiled  by  the 
folly  of  his  early  instructors  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that 
traits  often  remain  buried,  so  to  speak,  beneath  the  surface 
of  his  nature  which  none  but  unusual  or  even  extraordinary 
events  are  able  to  bring  forth.  Such  men  have  been  ruined 
for  the  actual  routine  of  their  ordinary  lives ;  languor  and 
indifference  have  cast  a  blurring  haze  across  those  lines  pf 
sacred  duty  which  should  be  as  clear  in  the  atmosphere  of 
their  own  spirits  as  the  morning-star  is  clear  amid  encom- 
passing dusk.  But  a  sudden  calamitous  turn  befalls  the 
current  of  their  fortunes,  and  everything  changes.  They 
have  now  a  new  life  to  live — a  life  in  which  they  can  be  as 
much  and  as  frankly  their  real  selves  as  the  influence  of 
perverse  training  has  prevented  them  from  being  their  real 
selves  in  some  other  train  of  experiences  heretofore.  And 
so  with  Bleakly  Voght.  Angela  no  longer  secretly  shud- 
dered, now,  when  he  took  both  her  hands  fondlingly  in  both 
of  his  and  looked  up  into  her  face  with  all  the  terrible 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  123 

ravages  of  haggardness  and  emaciation  so  manifest  on  his 
own.  His  unhappy  temper  was  like  an  extinct  volcano  ;  it 
smoked  a  little,  now  and  then,  but  that  was  all.  She  had 
ceased  to  fear  him  (she  had  seen  him  so  helpless  from 
excessive  prostration  that  a  fly  might  not  have  feared  him  !), 
and  there  was  such  relief  in  this  complete  absence  of  phys- 
ical alarm.  Now  that  he  was  better  and  they  spent  the 
days  of  his  convalescence  here  in  the  country  together,  she 
began  to  realize  just  why  it  was  that  he  had  been  thought 
attractive  by  women  in  the  past.  Their  mutual  relations 
were  now  wholly  changed.  If  she  did  not  give  him  any 
evidence  of  personal  love,  she  stood  always  toward  him  in  a 
ministrant,  alleviative,  beneficent  light ;  she  gave  him  an 
incessant  friendliness,  which  to  one  in  his  invalided  state 
may  be  made  quite  closely  to  resemble  love. 

But  in  spite  of  all  the  change  described,  Angela  had 
begun  to  dread  the  time  when  convalescence  would  be 
replaced  by  health.  Not  that  she  believed  the  tyrant  in  him 
would  ever  seek  to  harass  her  again,  but  rather  that  she 
feared  lest  his  new  demands  upon  her  wifely  tenderness 
might  shake  to  its  foundations  the  entire  present  structure 
of  their  intercourse.  As  long  as  he  needed  her  aid,  her 
stimulating  prophecy,  her  arm  to  lean  upon,  her  hand  to  do 
him  a  hundred  little  services,  their  mutual  affairs  might 
progress  comfortably,  acceptably,  for  both  ;  but  let  restored 
bodily  vigor  render  him  assertive  where  he  was  now  de- 
pendent, executive  where  he  was  now  complaisant,  and  the 
resulting  •boukucrsement  might  bring  discomforts  past  all  cal- 
culation. 

She  had  no  doubt  that  the  clamor  which  followed  his 
encounter  with  Hubert  had  caused  the  horrible  nervous 
malady  now  besieging  him.  There  had  been  a  period  when 
delirium  would  succeed  his  worst  attacks  of  agony,  and  then 
"Throckmorton  "  was  a  name  frequently  on  his  lips.  The 
iron  of  an  unspeakable  humiliation  had  entered  his  soul. 
He  had  been  knocked  down  in  a  public  place  and  had 


124  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

retreated  very  soon  after  the  chastisement.  This  much  the 
world  knew,  and  this  much  it  insisted  upon  interpreting 
after  its  own  arbitrary  fashion.  But  his  wife  had  observed 
with  relief,  of  late,  that  the  whole  erosive  memory  preyed 
less  than  previously  on  his  mind.  One  point  gave  her  a 
frequent  keen  uneasiness,  however,  and  that  was  the  inten- 
sity of  his  jealousy  regarding  Hubert.  If  the  latter  had  for- 
gotten Pineland,  he,  Voght,  had  been  very  far  from  forgetting 
Locustwood.  He  had  come  hither  for  the  delightful  air, 
and  it  had  already  accomplished  wonders  with  him.  He 
had  given  secret  instructions  to  his  valet,  Bradbourne  (a 
servant  who  had  but  recently  entered  his  employ  and  whose 
capacity  he  greatly  esteemed),  to  find  out  for  him  whether 
Mr.  Throckmorton  had  come  to  dwell  at  his  country-place 
this  summer ;  and  Bradbourne,  no  less  prompt  than  efficient, 
had  soon  brought  his  master  word  that  Mr.  Throckmorton 
was  at  his  country-place. 

From  this  hour  Angela  felt  that  she  was  watched,  though 
without  knowing  why  such  vigilance  was  exerted.  Her 
husband  made  no  direct  allusion  to  her  former  lover,  but  it 
was  evident  that  he  regarded  a  meeting  between  Hubert 
and  his  wife  as  among  the  odious  possibilities  of  the  situa- 
tion. It  had  grown  no  new  thing  for  Angela  to  have  Brad- 
bourne  despatched  in  search  of  her.  The  reason  given  for 
this  intrusive  espionage  always  had  an  outwardly  flattering 
form  ;  Mr.  Voght  was  lonely  or  nervous  without  her ;  Mr 
Voght  missed  her  very  much.  But  after  a  while  Angela 
began  to  suspect  that  solicitude  of  another  sort  was  at  the 
root  of  Mr.  Voght's  persistent  surveillance. 

As  she  walked  back  to  the  house  with  Bradbourne  this 
afternoon,  she  was  once  or  twice  on  the  verge  of  cautioning 
him  against  any  mention  of  having  found  her  in  the 
society  of  a  gentleman.  Still,  good  taste  forbade  her  from 
carrying  out  this  impulse.  It  was  enough  of  a  sting  to  feel 
that  Bradbourne  had  already  guessed  at  the  real  explanation 
of  her  husband's  hehavior.  No  !  she  would  not  invite  his 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


12$ 


pity,  and  wound  her  own  dignity  by  so  doing.  Best  to  take 
the  chances  of  his  saying  nothing.  He  had  thus  far  struck 
her  as  a  servant  of  the  nicest  prudence  and  discretion,  with- 
out the  remotest  hint  in  him  of  guile  or  falsity.  He  had 
not  a  face  that  had  ever  prepossessed  her.  It  was  honest 
enough,  but  under  a'll  its  decorum  and  gravity  she  had 
fancied  that  there  slept  an  energy  which  might  be  of  evil 
source.  Still,  such  judgments  as  these  were  so  apt,  she 
told  herself,  to  be  quite  en  /'air.  Living  in  this  dreary  old 
house  and  seeing  so  few  people  had  doubtless  made  her 
moody.  Bradbourne  had  come  to  her  husband  with  the 
best  of  recommendations  as  an  English  body-servant. 

"  How  far  did  you  walk  ?  "  Voght  now  asked,  while  a 
sigh  or  two  of  gratification  left  him  as  proof  that  his  neuralgia 
was  being  appreciably  soothed. 

"  Oh,  out  into  the  salt-meadows,  almost  to  Nicolson's 
Point,"  said  Angela. 

"  And  you  met  Bradbourne  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  suppose  you  were  returning  when  you  met  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

Just  then  Bradbourne,.  with  his  gently  official  air,  passed 
into  -the  room  through  the  half-open  door  that  led  from  the 
outside  hall.  He  at  once  began  to  fold  up  Angela's  cloak, 
which  she  had  thrown  carelessly  upon  one  of  the  chairs. 
Then  he  went  over  to  the  blazing  fireplace  and  began  to  re- 
arrange the  lurid  logs. 

'  He  will  think  it  strange  if  I  do  not  mention  having  met 
anybody,'  mused  Angela,  as  she  covertly  watched  his  stoop- 
ing figure.  '  But  no,'  her  reflections  quickly  proceeded  ;  '  he 
may  have  told  himself  that  there  has  already  been  time  for 
me  to  have  spoken  on  that  subject.' 

A  silence  followed.  Angela  continued  her  light,  swift, 
delicate  hand-motions.  Voght's  head  fell  backward  on  the 
cushioned  easy-chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  distress  was 


1 26  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

yielding  to  a  pleasant  sense  of  repose.  She  was  near  him, 
and  her  very  presence  wrought  a  placating  effect  upon  his 
morbidly  diseased  nerves. 

"  Bradbourne,"  he  suddenly  called  out,  in  a  voice  that 
held  a  certain  amount  of  actual  joviality  compared  with  the 
peevish  tones  that  both  his  hearers  had  so  often  heard  him 
use,  ''  Bradbourne,  what  are  you  thinking  about,  over  there, 
so  sombre  and  so  solemn  ;  eh  ?  I  sometimes  believe,  Brad- 
bourne,  that  you  do  a  lot  of  deep  thinking  which  nobody 
knows  about." 

The  man,  in  his  stooped  position  by  the  fire,  turned  and 
looked  at  Voght.  His  face  did  not  lose  a  shade  of  its  cus- 
tomary calm  as  he  answered  : 

"  I  was  thinking,  just  now,  Mr.  Voght,  of  a  very  fine  horse 
I  saw  a  little  while  ago." 

"  A  horse  ?"  queried  Voght,  "  whose  ?  " 

Angela  felt  a  sudden  chill  sweep  through  her  veins. 

"  I  don't  know  whose  it  was,  sir,"  replied  Bradbourne. 
"  A  gentleman  had  it.  I  mean  the  gentleman  Mrs.  Voght 
was  talking  to  when  I  met  her.  But  I  suppose  she  has  told 
you,  sir." 

This  was  said  as  innocently  as  it  was  said  respectfully. 
But  from  that  moment  Angela  distrusted  Bradbourne. 

Voght  gave  her  one  look,  and  then  settled  himself  a  little 
further  back  in  his  arm-chair.  She  continued  her  rubbing 
process,  though  once  or  twice  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 
power  of  moving  her  fingers  coordinately  might  at  any  in- 
stant desert  her. 

She  knew  very  well  that  her  husband  was  waiting  for 
Bradbourne  to  quit  the  room.  Then  the  storm  would  burst. 

Presently  the  valet  did  quit  the  room.  He  failed,  how- 
ever, to  shut  the  door,  leaving  it  just  as  it  had  been  when 
he  entered.  Suddenly,  Voght  rose  from  his  chair  and  went 
with  steps  of  speed  toward  the  door.  He  closed  it,  and  then 
turned,  facing  his  wife. 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


127 


His  face,  grown  so  cadaverous  since  his  illness,  was  livid. 
His  eyes  glittered  with  a  savagery  of  accusation.  Twice  or 
thrice  he  essayed  to  speak,  but  only  a  husky  sound  came 
from  his  lips. 


IX. 

STRANGELY  enough,  Angela  did  not  now  feel  any  of  that 
physical  fear  with  which  he  had  once  been  able  to  inspire 
her.  She  stood  before  him,  surprised  at  her  own  coolness. 
She  met  his  enraged  gaze  with  one  quite  unflinching.  Was 
not  this  because  of  the  illness  through  which  she  had  for 
weeks  nursed  him,  and  in  which  her  own  strong  young 
womanhood  had  been  so  contrasted  with  his  variant  stages 
of  prostration  and  weakness  ? 

"  So  .  .  you .  .  you  make  appointments,"  he  at  length 
managed  to  say,  "  that  you  do  not  tell  me  of  ?  " 

Angela  bit  her  lip,  and  then  shook  her  head  swiftly  once 
or  twice,  with  a  proud,  sad  air.  "  No,"  she  answered,  "  I 
made  no  appointment  with  him." 

"  With  him  ?  with  whom  ?  "  sped  Voght. 

"  With  Hubert  Throckmorton.  It  was  he  who  had  the 
horse  Bradbourne  admired.  I  was  talking  with  him  when 
Bradbourne  came  up." 

"  You  admit  it  ?  " 

"  Admit  it !  I  should  scorn  to  deny  it !" 

"  But .  .  you — you  did  not  tell  me.  You — you  waited  for 
me  to  learn  it  by  an  accident  like  that ! — by  the  chance  talk 
of  one  of  my  servants  !  " 

"  I  did  not  tell  you,"  answered  Angela ;  "  quite  right. 
Why  should  I  distress  you  by  the  account  ? — for  I  knew 
that  it  would  distress  you.  Since  the  meeting  was  wholly 
accidental — " 

"  So  you  say  !  "  he  broke  in,  with  a  most  acridly  taunting 
tone.  "  So  you  say  !  "  » 

"  Ah  !  "  she  cried,"  is  it  to  be  like  that  again,  between  you 
138 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


I29 


and  me!  I  thought  you  had  learned  both  to  trust  and  to 
honor  me  as  your  wife  !  I  thought  you  had  grown  to  freely 
grant  me  my  right  to  your  courtesy  and  consideration  !  I  be- 
lieved those  wild  fits  of  temper  (which  have  had  much  to  do 
with  your  wretched  illness)  were  forever  past.  .  .  But  have 
I  merely  fancied  all  this  ?  While  I  have  watched  at  your 
bedside  through  many  a  long  day  and  night,  I've  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  thinking  that  there  was  to  be  no  more  insult,  no 
more  persecution.  But  have  I  been  wrong  ?  Will  it  all  turn 
out  a  foolish  dream  with  me,  and  must  I  wake  to  find  that 
you're  as  tyrannical,  unjust,  childishly  exacting  as  ever !  " 

Before  she  had  ended  her  last  sentence  Angela  saw  that 
these  words  had  produced  a  decided  effect  upon  him.  He 
hurried  toward  her,  now,  with  both  hands  outstretched,  and 
his  face  twitching  strangely. 

"  Angela  !  "  he  cried,  "  it  isn't  a  dream  ;  it's  reality.  All 
that  hateful  time  is  past.  .  .  You  say  your  meeting  with  him 
was  accidental.  Very  well ;  I'll  take  your  word  !  "  He  had 
caught  both  her  hands,  and  as  that  last  exclamation  left  him 
a  harsh,  queer  laugh  rang  out,  accompanying  it.  But  at 
the  same  moment  Angela  looked  into  his  face  and  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  '  Most  curious  of  beings ! ' 
flashed  through  her  mind;  'who  could  ever  really  explain 
him  ? ' 

"I'll  take  your  word ;  do  you  hear?  "he  went  excitedly 
on.  "  You  need  not  tell  me  anything  of  what  passed  between 
you.  Perhaps  it  would  even  be  better  that  you  should  not 
tell  me.  .  .  Ah,  you  say  truly,  my  darling ;  you're  right,  my 
Angela,  my  rose,  my  pearl,  my  star  !  you  did  watch  at  my 
bedside  many  a  long  day  and  night.  And  Angela.  .  .  Oh, 
ought  I  to  say  it  ? — is  the  time  ripe  for  me  to  say  it  ? — 
Angela,  I  .  .  I've  begun  to  imagine  there's  something 
more  than  mere  duty  in  all  your  goodness.  Perhaps  I'm 
wrong  .  .  ."  He  stared  at  her  very  intently  for  a  little 
while,,  and  then,  with  a  certain  abruptness,  he  dropped 
her  hands  walking  toward  his  chair  again.  His  steps  were 
9 


130  DIVIDED  LIVES, 

a  little  unsteady,  and  his  head,  on  which  the  gray  hair 
grew  so  weirdly  bushy,  drooped  in  a  most  despondent  way. 
"  Don't  tell  me  if  I  am  wrong,"  he  pursued ;  and  his  voice 
sounded  as  husky  and  hollow  as  that  of  some  very  old 
man.  "  I'd  rather  not  be  told  if  you  still  don't  care  at  all — 
if  you  still  can't  care." 

"I  can  care,"  said  Angela,  following  him,  a  great  com- 
passion (which  by  no  means  every  woman  would  either  have 
felt  or  shown)  rising  and  stirring  in  her  soul.  "  I  can  care, 
Bleakly,  and  I  do  !  " 

He  turned,  and  with  a  short,  glad  cry  seized  her  in  his 
arms.  "  My  love  !  my  wife  !  "  broke  from  him.  He  show- 
ered kisses  upon  her ;  the  strain  of  his  arms  hurt  her.  But 
while  she  was  on  the  verge  of  uttering  some  sort  of  involun- 
tary plaint,  the  grasp  relaxed  and  his  form  swayed  slightly 
backward.  .  .  In  another  minute  she  had  forgotten  his  pas- 
sionate embrace  and  was  assisting  him,  dizzy  and  full  of  a 
kind  of  nervous  ague,  to  his  chair  a  few  yards  off.  .  .  All 
the  rest  of  .that  day  he  was  extremely  ill,  with  touches  of 
slight  delirium  that  made  Angela  fearful  of  a  relapse  into 
mental  conditions  that  she  had  already  found  fraught  with 
anxious  trial.  But  by  the  following  morning  a  marked 
change  for  the  better  took  place  in  him.  During  the  next 
day  he  seemed  to  gain  strength,  peace,  and  gradual  freedom 
from  suffering,  though  his  face  still  retained  its  terribly  hag- 
gard look.  Again  and  again  she  caught  him  gazing  at  her 
with  a  new  elated  intensity.  He  would  avert  his  eyes  as 
they  met  her  own,  and  Angela's  conscience  would  reproach 
her.  What  mere  will-o'-the-wisp  had  she  offered  him  for  the 
steadfast  lamp  of  hope  itself  ?  And  yet,  there  was  the  other 
way  of  regarding  it  all — the  merciful  way.  Allowing  that  she 
had  let  him  believe  a  falsehood,  had  she  really  committed  an 
evil  act  ?  She  could  never  love  him  as  a  wife  should  love  a 
husband  ;  but  perhaps  hereafter,  if  he  were  good  to  her  and 
dealt  no  more  in  those  repulsive  moods  that  had  once  made 
;11  their  married  future  loom  a  hideous  discouragement,  she 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 3 1 

might  feel  for  him  (who  could  tell  ?)  a  sentiment  somewhere 
between  friendship  and  sisterhood.  The  whole  emotional 
prospect,  as  it  were,  now  looked  very  elusive,  very  pre- 
carious ;  it  was  not  to  be  prophesied  about ;  it  had  its  deli- 
cate and  stealthy  developments  yet  ambushed  in  mystical 
shadow. 

'  I  am  willing,'  Angela  told  herself,  '  to  make  the  best  of 
a  thwarted  and  spoiled  life.  The  agony  through  which  I 
have  seen  him  pass  has  turned  me  more  human  toward  him, 
as  it  has  made  him  far  more  endurable.  If  the  change  will 
only  last!  There  lies  my  sole  chance  of  spiritual  content- 
ment in  the  coming  years.' 

Meanwhile  the  image  of  Hubert,  as  he  stood  at  the  side 
of  his  beautiful  horse,  with  the  far-sweeping  meadows  and 
the  round,  bluish,  gusty  clouds  behind  him,  haunted  her 
hour  after  hour.  She  recalled  every  word  that  had  been 
spoken  by  him,  though  some  of  her  own  sentences  she  could 
not  find  again  in  memory's  chamber  of  echoes.  Ah,  she 
knew  well  enough  why  !  Her  heart  had  leaped  so  wildly 
against  her  side  as  she  addressed  him,  that  sometimes  the 
sound  of  her  voice  had  seemed  weirdly  alien,  with  a  thin, 
remote  ring,  as  though  a  spirit  were  speaking  there  in  the 
wind,  in  the  mutable  light,  and  not  herself.  She  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  had  not  let  him  even  touch  her  hand — that 
she  had  had  strength  enough  to  pray  he  would  never  will- 
ingly see  her  again.  Yes,  she  had  thus  begged  of  him — she 
recollected  that  such  a  vein  of  appeal  had  run  through  her 
eager  protests,  though  here  and  there  the  substance  of  these 
latter  was  vague  enough  as  reminiscence.  .  .  And  GlenaJ- 
van  !  he  had  really  written  it ;  he  had  acknowledged  as  much ! 
Furtively  she  plunged  from  time  to  time  amid  its  pages,  and 
re-read  them  with  a  new  sense  of  verification,  confirmation. 
After  all,  she  had  not  been  mistaken !  She  caught  herself 
kissing  certain  lines,  and  then,  with  a  guilty  tumult  of  self- 
reproaches,  hid  the  book  out  of  sight  and  vowed  that  she 


132  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

would  not  re-open  it  for  a  twelvemonth.  But  this  vow  was 
unstable ;  it  was  writ  in  the  water  of  her  own  secret  tears. 

The  ensuing  week  saw  Voght  a  greatly  improved  man. 
For  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  at  Ponchatuk  he  took  a 
walk  about  the  grounds  of  the  estate.  The  weather  con- 
tinued magnificent,  with  fewer  clouds  than  formerly  in  the 
crystalline  sky,  and  an  atmosphere  that  made  the  robust 
pines  crowding  the  lawns  look  as  though  their  boskage  had 
been  cut  by  a  wizard  chisel  from  some  sort  of  greenish 
ebony.  The  invalid  held  his  wife's  arm  during  their  first 
stroll  together,  now  and  then  leaning  on  it  a  little  feebly, 
while  Bradbourne  followed  at  just  the  proper  deferential 
distance.  But  the  second  and  third  strolls  were  quite  d 
deux,  Bradbourne  being  no  longer  needed.  Instead  of 
leaning  on  Angela's  arm,  Voght  would  sometimes  draw  her 
arm  within  his.  It  repeatedly  occurred  to  Angela,  at  these 
intervals,  that  she  was  the  recipient  of  some  very  amiable 
and  gallant  love-making.  But  it  was  not  by  any  means  the 
payment  of  an  onerous  or  exacting  court ;  it  was  merely  a 
pretty  and  delicate  tribute,  with  the  decisive  hint  in  it  of 
past  illness  and  present  convalescence.  It  made  her  mind 
revert  to  the  stories  that  she  had  heard  before  her  marriage  of 
how  unexpectedly  fascinating  this  man  could  be  with  women 
when  he  chose,  and  of  how  women  the  most  difficult  to 
conquer  had  bowed  before  his  adroit  and  subtle  victories, 
notwithstanding  salient  personal  differences  between  himself 
and  the  accepted  type  of  heart-breaker. 

A  dread  began  to  shape  itself  in  her  heart.  There  seemed 
every  apparent  reason  for  concluding  that  he  would  soon 
be  very  much  better — that,  in  fact,  he  would  get  completely 
well.  As  they  moved  about  the  lawns,  which  were  half 
bronzed  with  tawny  pine-needles  and  bestrewn,  here  and 
there,  with  dry,  ragged,  swarthy  cones,  he  spoke  in  tender 
exhilaration  concerning  their  coming  winter  in  the  Riviera 
and  the  pleasures  that  awaited  them  on  that  wonderfully 
salubrious  tract  of  Mediterranean  coast.  But  blended  with 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  133 

such  declared  anticipations  were  professions  of  fondness 
that  now  and  then  almost  took  away  poor  Angela's  breath. 
All  this  had  been  born  of  a  few  pitying  words  uttered  by 
her  under  the  keen  stress  of  compassion  !  She  felt  as  if 
she  had  been  masquerading  in  the  role  of  a  millionaire  and 
must  soon  reveal  what  emptiness  of  poverty  dwelt  within 
her  purse.  Might  not  the  resistless  disclosure  of  her  inca- 
pacity to  return  such  warmth  as  this  when  it  had  changed 
from  mere  warmth  into  ardent  heat,  restore  those  old  hor- 
rible relations  which  had  so  grewsomely  clad  the  initial 
months  of  their  marriage  ? 

As  Voght's  fine  inherent  strength  of  nerve  and  limb 
returned  to  him,  he  remembered  that  this  was  the  shooting- 
season  at  Ponchatuk  and  that  woodcock  abounded  for  the 
sportsman  among  neighboring  meadows.  It  soon  delighted 
him  to  learn  that  Bradbourne  knew  about  the  handling  of 
guns  and  the  slaying  of  game  birds.  He  held  one  or  two 
rather  earnest  conversations  with  his  servant  on  this  subject, 
to  all  of  which,  as  it  chanced,  Angela  was  a  rather  indif- 
ferent listener.  Finally  an  expedition  was  planned,  one 
especially  brilliant  autumn  day,  and  it  was  then  that  these 
words,  about  an  hour  or  so  before  the  two  started,  were 
spoken  quite  gayly  and  carelessly  by  Voght  to  his  man  : 

"You  say  you've  only  found  two  guns  in  the  whole  house, 
Bradbourne  ?  Well,  it's  lucky  there  are  even  so  many  as  that 
here.  Several  years  ago  I  recollect  taking  three  or  four  out 
of  my  stock  when  I  went  to  make  a  long  trip  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  One  got  hurt  and  I  threw  it  away;  one,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,  I  presented  to  a  guide,  one  I  lost  on  the  train,  and 
one  I'm  under  the  impression  that  somebody  stole  from  me 
at  my  town  house.  Since  then  I've  never  shot  at  all — except 
a  little,  once  or  twice,  while  in  England." 

"These  are  very  good  guns,  sir,"  said  Bradbourne.  He 
held  one  in  each  hand  as  he  stood  at  Voght's  side.  He  had 
cleaned  them  both  thoroughly  during  the  previous  day. 

Voght  reached  out  for  the  larger  of  the  two  pieces.    "  Ah," 


134  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

he  said,  handling  it  with  an  adept's  air ;  "  I  recollect  this 
fellow  very  well.  I  bought  him  last  of  all  my  lot.  A  splen- 
did gun  for  woodcock  or  quail,  Bradbourne  ...  By  the  way, 
Bradbourne  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"You've  everything  ready  if  I  decided  to  start  in  an  hour 
or  two.  I  mean,  dogs  and  all  ? " 

"Everything,  sir." 

A  little  later  Voght  said  to  his  wife.  "  I  think  I'm  strong 
enough  for  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  as  though  perhaps  not  just 
sure  what  answer  she  ought  to  give.  "You'll  drive  to 
the  shooting-grounds,  I  think  you  said  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  We'll  drive  to-day,  on  account  of  my  not  being 
in  trim.  It's  rather  an  unsportsmanlike  thing  to  do,  but  I 
suppose  it  would  be  madness  for  me  to  take  a  tramp  of  seven 
or  eight  miles  across  the  fields  before  I'm  quite  sure  of  my 
own  strength." 

"  You're  very  right,"  replied  Angela.  "  It  would  be  an 
act  of  the  most  marked  imprudence." 

Hubert  had  ridden  homeward  that  day  with  set  lips  and 
blank  eyes.  Dara  took  him  almost  whither  she  pleased  ;  if 
she  had  brought  him  into  some  really  dangerous  swamp  he 
would  perhaps  have  discovered  the  deviation  just  in  time  to 
save  himself  and  no  more. 

Through  succeeding  days  he  made  at  least  twenty  different 
resolves  about  quitting  Ponchatuk.  Perhaps  if  he  had  had 
some  definite  preference  of  one  place  over  another  he  might 
have  departed  forthwith.  But  all  places  held  out  the  same 
inadequate  lure  to  him.  Besides,  his  home  was  here,  after 
all,  and  the  most  sumptuous  hotel-accommodations  could  not 
equal  its  simple  comforts.  It  was  true  that  she  had  asked 
him  to  go — had  implored  him  to  go,  in  fact.  Well,  he  would 
grant  her  prayer ;  he  meant  to  grant  it.  And  yet  what  if  he 
should  linger  here  a  little  longer  and  watch  the  season  die, 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  135 

with  its  heavens  like  aerial  turquoise  and  its  woods  gorgeous 
as  the  tapestries  of  Turkestan  ?  She  had  merely  meant 
that  they  should  avoid  meeting  one  another  in  the  future  ; 
what  was  their  nearness  to  one  another,  provided  no  further 
actual  encounter  took  place  ?  And  if  he  had  erred  once  he 
would  never  repeat  his  folly.  It  had  been  with  him  like 
bringing  a  burn  near  the  fire  again ;  only  fresh  ache  and 
sting  had  resulted. 

Different  from  many  men  of  the  so-called  aesthetic  temper- 
ament, he  was  by  no  means  a  lazy  moralist.  It  had  often 
been  said  of  him  that  he  possessed  no  religious  belief,  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been  true,  and  which,  if  entirely  true, 
would  not  have  emphasized  any  reason  for  his  not  being  a 
devout  believer  in  more  substantial  things.  Happily,  the 
days  are  almost  past  when  people  of  the  higher  and  better 
intelligence  regard  religion  and  morality  as  transferable 
terms.  Hubert  would  have  been  quite  sure  to  tell  you  (if  he 
cared  about  discussing  the  subject  with  any  living  confidant) 
that  it  needed  no  stronger  force  than  his  own  sense  of  eth- 
ical fitness  to  keep  him  from  either  torturing  Angela  Voght 
by  his  presence,  or  weakening  and  harming  his  own  spiritual 
nature  by  stolen  interviews  full  of  storm  and  dolor.  He  was 
a  man  who  looked  for  no  supernatural  explanation  of  the 
laws  that  bind  society  together.  He  saw  in  them  the  plain 
and  direct  energies  of  that  justice  which  is  either  subjective 
or  objective,  and  which  defends  me  against  my  fellows,  as 
it  restrains  me  from  my  fellows.  Some  men,  knowing  that 
they  possessed  the  power  over  Angela  which  Hubert  could 
not  doubt  that  he  still  possessed,  would  have  found  easy 
arguments  to  justify  them  in  the  unscrupulous  employment 
of  that  power.  Hubert  simply  clenched  his  teeth,  and  told 
himself  that  to  employ  it  at  all,  to  do  anything  except  stamp 
it  underfoot,  would  be  to  commit  one  of  those  criminally 
rash  misdeeds  which  are  so  many  thorns  in  the  flesh  of 
human  advancement.  Voght's  wife  was  his  own,  and  so  was 
Angela's  wifely  honor  hers.  It  would  be  vicious  theft  in 


136  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

him  not  to  leave  both  unmolested.  He  might  urge  the  plea 
of  peculiar  sundering  circumstances  ;  but  we  are  all  subject 
to  misfortune,  and  there  is  hardly  any  case  in  which  it  may 
not  be  made  an  excuse  for  sin.  No,  his  course  lay  clear 
and  straight  before  him.  He  meant,  with  all  the  force  of 
will  that  was  in  him,  to  take  it,  and  to  hold  by  it. 

One  morning  he  received  a  letter  from  O'Hara,  who  had 
just  had  time  to  read  Glenalvan,  and  who  was  quivering  no 
less  with  enthusiasm  than  with  conviction.  "  I  recognized 
you  at  least  twice  on  every  page,"  wrote  the  Irishman. 
"  Oh,  my  friend,  there  can  be  no  mistake.  There  is  only  one 
Throckmorton  in  this  particular  epoch  of  ours,  and  sooner 
or  later  the  world  will  come  to  realize  it.  Why,  my  dear 
boy,  it  isn't  your  '  manner '  that  betrays  you ;  it's  your 
charming  freedom  from  one.  Your  verse  is  the  soul  of 
lucidity,  just  as  it  is  of  sincerity.  You're  above  all  trick  ; 
your  individuality  is  wider  and  deeper  than  any  dialect  could 
make  it.  You  rest  your  claim  upon  beauty,  pure  and  simple. 
But  good  heavens !  how  you  throw  the  spell  of  beauty 
about  everything  you  touch  !  Who  will  ever  claim  that  ag- 
nosticism is  not  a  noble  theme  for  poetry  after  reading  that 
conversation  in  Book  II.  between  Glenalvan  and  the  Catho- 
lic priest  ?  WTho  will  deny  that  science  isn't  capable  of  the 
most  splendid  emotional  treatment  after  that  apostrophe  -to 
it  in  Glenalvan' s  copious  but  sublime  soliloquy  ?  And  I 
have  never  dreamed  that  the  so-called  Religion  of  Humanity 
could  be  clad  in  as  much  burning  eloquence.  But  that  is 
not  all ;  it  amazes  me  to  mark  how  you  have  contrived  to 
mingle,  in  your  political  reproaches  against  America,  so 
much  imagination  with  so  much  pitiless  logic.  To  think  of 
making  the  Muse  talk  about  Protection  and  Free  Trade  1 
It  did  not  seem  possible  that  she  could  do  anything  with 
such  subjects  except  stammer  gracelessly.  But  you  make 
her  glitter  with  wit  at  one  moment  and  melt  with  sentiment 
the  next.  .  .  Ah,  wondersmith  !  how  have  you  wrought  this 
enchanting  poem  ?  No  marvel  that  they  are  babbling  about 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


137 


it  over  in  England,  where  it  needs  almost  a  new  Shakespeare 
to  thrill  the  languor  of  their  Saturday  reviewers " 

This  letter  of  O'Hara's  caused  Hubert  fo  remember  that 
he  had  mentioned  something  about  the  autumn  shooting  at. 
Ponchatuk  when  they  were  together  at  Long  Branch.  He 
soon  afterward  wrote :  "  Come  to  me  for  a  day  or  two  if 
you  can,  and  I'll  try  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  having 
saddled  me  with  Glenalvan.  The  shooting,  as  far  as  I  can 
learn,  is  very  bad  this  year ;  but  if  we  can't  shoot  we  can 
always  talk,  and  I've  some  Madeira  here  that  they  thought 
fine  before  I  was  born." 

O'Hara  accepted  the  invitation  with  promptness.  He 
arrived  one  evening  just  at  twilight ;  it  was  cold  enough  for 
Hubert  to  have  had  fires  lit  in  all  the  lower  rooms ;  and 
outside,  just  behind  the  gold-leaved  locusts,  a  new  moon, 
shaped  like  a  cup  of  glistening  silver,  hung  over  a  sunset 
that  was  like  a  great  pool  of  spilt  wine. 

"  C'est  unefete  de  vous  voir"  said  O'Hara,  with  his  Celtic 
French,  and  wringing  his  friend's  hand  as  they  met  in  the 
wide  old  lower  hall  of  the  homestead.  "  My  dear  boy,  if  I 
missed  the  train  you  told  me  to  take,  I  do  hope  you've  not 
missed  your  dinner  in  consequence.  ..." 

"  Dinner  hasn't  been  served  yet,"  said  Hubert,  in  his 
quiet  way,  as  they  were  entering  the  fire-lit  library.  "  Since 
the  evenings  have  grown  so  long,  I  rarely  dine  till  eight 
o'clock." 

O'Hara  stood  undecidedly  for  a  moment,  glancing  now 
at  the  dark,  tasteful,  book-lined  room  and  now  at  his  hand- 
some, high-bred  host.  He  ran  one  big  white  hand  rumina- 
tively  through  his  coarse,  red,  curly  locks,  and  that  little  live 
spark  that  was  forever  floating  about  in  his  hazel  eyes 
brightened  into  the  keenest  of  twinkles. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  he  said,  "  how  fortune  showers  her  bless- 
ings on  some  men  !  " 

It  was  impossible  to  avoid  seeing  what  he  meant. 
"  Blessings  !  "  repeated  Hubert.  Just  as  he  spoke  the  word 


138  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

he  approached  one  of  the  broad  windows  to  pull  down  its 
shade.  Off  there  against  the  fading  sunset  sky  those  pines 
that  stood  about  Angela's  home  lifted  their  black  massed 
boughs.  '  Blessings,'  he  said  again,  but  this  time  to  him- 
self. 

"  You've  the  blessing  of  genius,  my  dear  fellow,"  cried 
O'Hara,  "even  if  you  have  nothing  else."  And  then,  as 
though  this  subject  were  one  magically  inspiriting,  he 
branched  off  into  a  eulogy  of  Glenalvan  by  no  means  less 
florid  than  that  which  was  contained  in  his  letter. 

Hubert  never  recalled  having  seen  him  more  charming 
than  during  dinner  and  for  two  or  three  hours  afterward. 
He  abounded  with  wit  and  geniality  ;  he  told  three  or  four 
convulsingly  funny  stories  which  also  had  the  rare  merits  of 
being  both  decent  and  brief ;  he  spoke  on  the  literary  out- 
look, as  it  is  called,  with  blended  acumen  and  scholarship. 
He  was  bon  camarade,  gentlemanly,  captivating.  Hubert, 
who  had  rather  dreaded  having  anybody  at  Locustwood, 
even  after  his  invitation  had  gone  forth,  now  felt  most 
happily  disappointed  in  the  result  of  his  little  anti-ascetic 
experiment. 

O'Hara's  blithe  spirits  were  in  a  manner  born  of  self-grat- 
ulation.  It  had  not  needed  what  he  held  the  almost  unique 
qualities  of  Glenalvan  to  strengthen  his  belief  in  Hubert's 
exceptional  worth.  O'Hara,  as  we  know,  had  started  his 
career  with  an  ideal.  That  ideal  seemed  impossible  of 
attainment,  now ;  he  had  done  things  for  a  certain  number 
of  years  that  made  him  wonder  how  he  could  ever  have  got 
out  of  their  miry  rut  and  landed  himself  in  the  comparative 
cleanliness  of  his  present  life.  But  this  life  still  failed  to 
suit  him.  There  were  features  of  his  journalistic  career  that 
wakened  within  him  a  dull,  ceaseless  remorse.  There  were 
lies  which  he  lived  if  he  did  not  actually  tell  and  which  at 
times  made  sick  the  something  in  his  spirit  no  mundane  asso- 
ciation could  render  callous.  Of  course  heredity  was  at  the 
root  of  these  repentant  pangs,  and  education  had  helped 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


139 


heredity,  as  it  invariably  must.  He  had  been  born  and 
reared  not  merely  a  gentleman,  as  the  ordinary  phrase  runs, 
but  he  had  been  born  and  reared  so  that  every  impulse  and 
tendency  had  prompted  him,  at  one  time  of  his  life,  to  culti- 
vate an  unchangeable  fineness.  He  had  wanted  to  be  fine 
just  as  Hubert  was  fine — Hubert,  who  seemed  to  him  the 
one  shining  type  of  parfait  gentilhomme  at  which  the  index  of 
experience  could  safely  and  accurately  point.  Whenever 
Hubert  paid  him  the  least  civility  he  felt  proud  and  keenly 
gratified.  The  thought  of  having  been  asked  to  Locustwood 
had  exhilarated  and  cheered  him.  His  expansive  Irish  nature 
yearned  toward  his  host  with  a  loyal  and  grateful  tenderness. 
It  was  during  the  progress  of  dinner  (a  repast  which  he 
praised  with  deserved  epicurean  compliments,  and  of  which 
he  partook  with  an  appetite  verifying  such  encomium)  that 
he  merrily  yet  seriously  said  : 

"  Ah,  I  see  you've  taken  my  advice  about  writing  for  the 
public  and  not  beyond  it.  And  yet  the  devil  of  the  matter 
is,  my  dear  boy,  that  you've  written  beyond  and  yet  for  it,  by 
that  miraculous  method  which  genius  alone  understands." 

Hubert  laughed  while  he  bit  an  olive.  "  So  you  cling  to 
that  '  fad  '  regarding  my  authorship  of  Glenalvan  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  needn't  either  deny  or  affirm.  I  know  you 
belter  than  you  think  I  do." 

"  It  occurs  to  me,"  said  Hubert,  "  that  there  should  be  a 
special  kind  of  moral  law  to  cover  the  case  of  an  author  who 
has  made  up  his  mind  to  preserve  the  anonymity  of  (a  cer- 
tain work.  If  he  says  '  I  did  not  write  it,'  his  honor  should 
remain  just  as  untarnished  as  if  he  had  told  the  exact  truth. 
I  don't  see  that  he  has  any  other  way  of  getting  along 
except  by  turning  wrong  into  right  with  the  most  topsy-turvy 
depravity  ;  do  you  ?  " 

O'Hara's  eyes  twinkled.  "  Is  this  the  prelude  of  an  open 
confession  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  afraid  that  if  I  were  to  tell  you  I  really 
wrote  Glenah'an  your  critical  modesty  would  be  shattered 


140  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

forever  ;  you'd  become  a  greater  autocrat  than  Dr.  Johnson. 
Besides,  you  admire  faith  and  deplore  the  scientific  spirit  of 
the  age  ;  you've  told  me  that  you  do.  Now  let  me  see  you 
preserve  your  faith,  live  in  it  and  draw  from  it  the  sweet 
peace  that  passeth  understanding." 

"  The  peace  that  passeth  understanding  is  the  kind  that 
comes  to  a  Browningite,"  returned  O'Hara  ;  "  but  with  Glen- 
alvan  it's  a  different  affair  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  won't  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  know  she's  there ; 
I've  heard  her  mew." 

After  dinner,  when  they  were  both  seated  near  the  fire  in 
the  library,  O'Hara  again  referred  to  the  poem  which  had  so 
captivated  him,  though  this  time  with  no  marks  of  curiosity 
regarding  its  authorship. 

"  It  amazed  me,  Throckmorton,"  he  said,  making  a 
smoke-cloud  from  one  of  Hubert's  good  cigars,  "  that  you 
should  (pardon  me — I  mean  that  the  unknown  writer  should) 
have  succeeded  so  brilliantly  with  the  management  of  those 
modern  questions.  You  know,  we  talked  on  that  subject 
while  together  at  Long  Branch,  and  I  then  declared  that 
what  the  great  public  wanted  in  poetry  was  precisely  oppo- 
site to  what  you — to  what  the  author  of  Gknalvan — has 
given  it." 

"  Yes,"  nodded  Hubert  oracularly  ;  and  then,  after  a  little 
silence,  his  friend  continued,  at  first  with  grave  sarcasm  : 

"  I  regret,  for  several  reasons,  not  knowing  the  author  of 
that  very  notable  work.  I  should  like  to  ask  him  if  he  truly 
believes  with  the  hero  of  the  history  that  science — scientia, 
knowledge — is  hereafter  to  answer  every  question  relating  to 
the  destiny  of  man." 

"  It  would  be  highly  probable,  I  should  imagine,"  said 
Hubert,  "  that  Glenalvan  and  his  creator  were  of  one  and 
the  same  opinon." 

"  But  the  philosophy  of  agnosticism  makes  all  knowledge 
pause  before  the  unknowable.  '  In  its  ultimate  essence,' 
says  Herbert  Spencer,  '  nothing  can  be  known.'." 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  141 

"  True  enough,"  replied  Hubert.  "  But  what  now  seems  to 
us  the  unknowable,  the  unconditioned,  the  absolute,  may 
really  be  within  the  future  reach  of  science.  There  was  a 
time  when  to  prove  molecular  motion  would  have  looked 
almost  as  wild  as  it  now  looks  to  try  and  get  on  the  other  side 
of  matter.  Some  day  science  may  tell  us  that  what  we  have 
been  taking  for  final  causes  are  nothing  of  the  kind — 
that  ..." 

"  Science,"  here  broke  in  O'Hara,  "  is  forever  behaving 
just  that  way.  She  is  forever  pushing  on,  yet  never  reach- 
ing an  end." 

Hubert  made  a  slightly  impatent  gesture.  "My  dear  fel- 
low," he  returned,  "  what  sophomore  has  not  learned  that  ? 
But  why  shall  we  presume  to  say  that  sooner  or  later  the 
vision  which  Glenalvan  intellectually  sees  may  not  be  substan- 
tiated here  on  earth  ?  Science  will  then  have  told  man  all ; 
man,  the  ultimate  yet  infecund  product  of  a  race  which  it 
has  taken  quintillions  of  years  to  develop  through  number- 
less grades  of  evolution,  walks  the  earth  as  the  mythic 
angels  of  Milton  walked  their  mythic  heaven.  His  mighty 
destiny  has  at  last  been  accomplished  ;  he  is  lord  of  this 
planet — perhaps  of  the  entire  solar  system  as  well.  Civili- 
zation, which  is  he,  has  reached  its  highest  condition  of 
heterogeneity,  which  means  perfection.  He  has  mastered 
everything;  he  has  conquered  physical  disease,  and  utterly 
annihilated  another  form  of  disease  once  known  as  sin.  He 
will  live  on,  perhaps,  in  a  condition  of  statical  faultlessness, 
for  many  thousands  of  years,  until  the  first  traces  of  disin- 
tegration manifest  themselves  both  in  himself  and  in  the 
earth  which  he  peoples.  Such  disintegration  will  doubtless 
be  brought  about  by  the  cooling  off  of  the  sun,  and  as  that 
process  must  be  enormously  gradual,  so  will  the  downward 
lapse  of  the  race  be  gradual  as  well." 

"  It's  tremendously  poetical,"  said  O'Hara,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  staring  for  a  moment  at  the  ceiling  ;  "yet  I 
can't  help  but  think  it  would  be  finer  if  you  let  the  race 


142  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

reach  one  still  higher  plane  of  grandeur  instead  of  going  so 
miserably  to  seed." 

"  You  mean  ?  "  questioned  Hubert. 

"  I  mean,  of  course — God." 

Both  smoked  in  silence  for  a  little  while.  At  length 
Hubert  said  :  "  Perhaps,  in  a  way,  it  might  be  finer.  That 
is,  pictorially.  But  how  if  it  were  not  true  ?" 

"  Ah,"  cried  O'Hara,  "  I've  always  been  a  poor  enough 
religionist ;  but  why  may  it  not  be  as  true  as  the  other 
prophecy  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  repeated  Hubert,  a  little  sharply  for  him.  And 
then  his  manner  grew  much  quieter,  and  he  slightly  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  in  order  to  find  that 
out  you'll  have  to  meet  the  author  of  Glenalvan  personally." 

"  Oho  !  "  exclaimed  O'Hara,  "  that's  altogether  too  Mach 
iavellian  for  a  poet.  There  was  one  thing  about  this  poem 
which  I  insist  upon  maintaining  you  wrote  :  from  beginning 
to  end  I  did  not  find  in  it  a  single  line  that  was  the  least 
ambiguous." 

"  Nor  should  there  be  in  any  poem,"  declared  Hubert, 
with  a  touch  of  half-betraying  fervor.  "  There  is  something 
to  my  thought  equally  sad  and  trivial  in  seeing  an  age  like 
the  present  one  waste  precious  time  over  metrical  enigmas. 
This  is  an  age  whose  best  philosophers  have  set  us  a  hand- 
some example  of  perspicuity.  It  is  an  age  with  a  very 
wholesome  contempt  for  metaphysics.  Germany  allows  a 
few  such  cobwebs  to  hang ;  they  ought  to  be  nearly  harm- 
less there,  as  most  of  the  mischievous  spiders  once  inhabit- 
ing them  have  died  a  good  while  ago.  England's  brooms, 
on  the  other  hand,  have  swept  all  hers  away;  the  philo- 
sophic thought  of  no  other  country  in  the  world  is  to-day 
so  exempt  from  metaphysical  delusion  as  that  of  England. 
But  of  her  modern  poetry  this  by  no  means  is  true.  It  has 
often  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  thought  any  speculative  frag- 
ment of  dogma  were  good  enough,  nowadays,  for  poetic 
treatment.  Of  course  I  include  America,  when  I  say  Eng- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  143 

land ;  there  should  be  some  international  adjective  to 
express  the  colonial  character  in  which  American  letters 
must,  for  centuries  yet,  stand  toward  English." 

"  Let  us  invent  a  word,"  said  O'Hara,  laughing.  "  Here- 
after when  anyone  refers  to  the  literature  of  the  two  great 
English-speaking  peoples,  let  him  call  it  '  Anglimerican.'  " 

"  Charming,"  decided  Hubert.  "  It  may  be  indifferent 
philology  but  it  is  irreproachable  euphony." 

"  But  by  the  way,  my  dear  boy,"  proceeded  O'Hara,  "you 
surely  don't  claim  that  poetry  and  metaphysics  should  be 
forever  divorced  from  one  another." 

Hubert  looked  into  the  lurid  fire,  while  a  slow  smile  began 
to  steal  about  his  lips.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  future  generations 
will  have  little  patience,  I  think,  with  those  who  beat  the 
air.  If  you  will  examine  closely  the  work  of  any  poet  who 
tends  toward  mysticism  you  will  find  that  he  tends  toward 
superstition  also.  But  sooner  or  later  I  feel  confident  that 
every  vestige  of  superstition  will  be  banished  from  life.  If 
from  life,  why  not  from  literature,  which  is  a  form  of  life 
or  else  nothing?  No,  my  friend;  there  will  no  more  be 
obscure  poets  '  when  the  years  have  died  away  '  than  there 
will  be  obscure  historians,  obscure  moralists." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  O'Hara,  jumping  up,  with  both  hands 
thrust  into  his  pockets,  "  I'm  prepared  to  take  issue  with 
you  there — blessed  if  I'm  not !  Now  I  hold  that  imagina- 
tion (which  no  doubt  is  another  word  for  superstition  in 
your  new  scientific  dictionary)  will  never  be  banished  from 
any  sort  of  literature  !  And  moreover — " 

"  I  could  have  no  such  designs  upon  imagination,"  Hubert 
here  broke  in ;  "  let  me  assure  you,  on  the  contrary,  that  I 
have  the  deepest  regard  for  it,  except  that  phase  of  it  which 
might  be  defined  as  superstition  .  .  .  However  "  (and  now 
he  rose  with  his  easy  air  of  hostship)  "  perhaps  if  you  mean 
to  fight  it  out  with  me  you  would  like  a  little  of  the  sinew  of 
war." 

He  rang,  and  when   two   or   three   decanters   had   been 


144  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

brought,  with  their  satellite  glasses,  O'Hara  began  both  to 
talk  and  to  drink.  Hubert  made  himself  some  sort  of  dilu- 
tion and  took  sparing  incidental  sips  of  it ;  he  had  already 
had  a  glass  of  madeira  at  dinner,  and  his  was  the  tempera- 
ment that  inherently  shrinks  from  all  save  the  most  moderate 
stimulant.  His  companion,  on  the  other  hand,  had  not 
only  taken  several  glasses  of  the  madeira,  but  had  drunk 
rather  copiously  of  other  choice  wines  besides.  That  for- 
mer weakness  for  strong  drink  in  O'Hara  had  been  suffi- 
ciently conquered  to  make  his  future  career  promise  far 
more  hopeful  things  than  had  once  seemed  possible.  But 
occasionally  the  old  bad  greed  would  get  the  best  of  him 
still,  and  its  terms  of  brief  mastery  for  the  most  part  made 
themselves  felt  when  life  seemed  to  treat  .him,  as  now,  with 
a  special  softness  and  indulgence.  He  had  always  thought 
it  a  privilege  to  know  Hubert ;  he  felt  a  proud  thrill,  this 
evening,  in  the  realization  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Hubert  had  asked  him  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere 
guest  of  the  hour.  He  was  delighted  by  the  sense  of  per- 
sonal association  with  one  whom  he  so  heartily  and  devoutly 
respected.  He  differed  from  his  entertainer,  now,  in  their 
present  rather  vehement  discussion';  but  the  pleasure  of 
drawing  Hubert  out,  of  watching  his  mind  flash  or  glow 
under  stress  of  varying  attack,  was  more  agreeable  to  him 
than  his  alert  and  often  vigorous  antagonisms  denoted. 
O'Hara  was  himself  a  man  in  whom  liberal  theories  offered 
a  charm  to  which  an  unconquered  orthodoxy  had  not  yet 
permitted  his  entire  surrender.  He  loved  to  hear  Hubert's 
dauntless  and  cool-headed  responses,  delivered  against  his 
own  more  conservative  postulates.  He  had  not  "followed 
the  time  "  in  his  reading  half  as  much  as  Hubert  had  done. 
He  had  always  wanted  the  leisure  to  do  it ;  he  was  trained  in 
methods  of  scholarship,  and  most  efficiently  so.  But  the 
immense  modern  intellectual  movement  had  escaped  him 
in  the  demand  and  worry  of  continuous  journalistic  work. 
The  more  that  Hubert  calmly  and  logically  defeated  him 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  145 

now,  the  more  amazed  he  became  that  his  contestant  should 
actually  be  the  poet  whom  he  knew  him.  This  was  indeed 
a  new  kind  of  poet  who  made  cold  science  underlie  all  his 
points  of  controversy.  But  science  did  not  seem  cold,  some- 
how, as  Hubert  dealt  with  it ;  the  chill  hardness  of  mere 
fact  vanished,  and  the  warmth,  the  expansiveness  of  truth 
appeared  instead.  He  began  to  feel  convinced  that  super- 
stition and  imagination  were  not  one — that  much  of  the 
romanticism  in  past  literature  had  been  a  vast  mistake — 
that  the  province  of  all  art  was  to  express  human  experi- 
ence and  not  fascinatingly  to  misrepresent  it — that  many 
literary  reputations  had  been  built  up,  in  preceding  years, 
upon  falsehoods  no  less  untrustworthy  than  engaging. 

But  he  argued  still;  "e'en  though  vanquished,"  nearly 
every  clever  man  does ;  and  O'Hara  was  now  in  the  position 
of  an  exceedingly  clever  man  who  will  not  admit  himself 
worsted  while  he  has  a  single  big  argumentative  gun  left 
with  a  big  crashing-power  in  its  throat.  Meanwhile  he  drank 
copiously  and  carelessly.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  talked 
with  a  greater  brilliancy  while  he  drank ;  it  seemed  to 
Hubert  that  he  talked  with  considerably  less.  The  hours 
slipped  on,  from  ten  to  midnight,  from  midnight  till  a  good 
deal  past.  .  .  Hubert  began  to  find  himself  rather  severely 
bored.  O'Hara  had  said  a  great  many  complimentary 
things  to  him  ;  he  had  sugared  a  number  of  stout  denials 
and  contradictions  with  profuse  personal  admiration.  .  .  . 
After  a  little  while  longer  Hubert  told  himself,  in  annoyance 
and  regret,  that  his  guest,  on  this  the  first  evening  of  his 
visit,  was  getting  somewhat  repellingly  drunk. 

It  was  quite  true.  .  .  O'Hara's  head  at  last  fell  back  on 
the  tufted  support  of  his  arm-chair,  and  thick,  husky  snores 
ensued  a  little  later.  Hubert,  more  grieved  than  irritated, 
rose  and  strove  to  awake  him.  But  it  was  quite  impossible. 
He  looked  at  the  decanter  toward  which  his  friend's  hand 
had  so  often  strayed  during  their  long  stance  together,  and 
19 


146  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

started  when  he  saw  the  liquid  evidence  of  his  present 
torpor. 

'  Well,  well,'  he  reflected,  '  it's  too  bad.  I'll  leave  him 
here.  He  knows  his  room ;  he'll  wake  up  some  time  before 
morning,  no  doubt.  .  .  His  old  folly ;  I  fancied  he'd  quite 
outlived  it.' 

Next  morning  O'Hara  met  his  host  at  by  no  means  a  late 
hour.  He  was  perfectly  himself  again  ;  his  superb  physical 
health  had  been  one  of  his  worst  temptations  toward  excess, 
as  it  so  often  is  with  men  of  the  same  large  and  sure 
vitality.  His  liver,  his  nerves,  never  troubled  him  with  a 
"  to-morrow."  But  his  conscience  troubled  him  now,  and 
he  poured  forth  a  strain  of  remorse  as  voluminous  as  it  was 
sincere. 

Never  had  his  deserted  "  ideal  "  looked  more  sombrely  re- 
mote from  him.  After  he  had  fiercely  damned  himself  to  the 
lowest  infernal  depths  and  yet  proved  by  eating  a  plowman's 
breakfast  that  mental  disturbance  did  not  interfere  with 
bodily  welfare,  Hubert  feared  lest  melancholy  might  so  cloud 
him  as  to  render  his  company  both  tedious  and  uncharacteris- 
tic. This  was  an  error  of  judgment,  however,  and  proved  how 
little  the  lord  of  Locustwood  knew  his  visitor.  O'Hara's 
despair  had  in  it  an  element  of  humor  which  made  Hubert 
think  of  something  he  had  somewhere  read  about  the  rules 
for  writing  good  comedy,  and  in  which  the  axiom  had  been 
laid  down  that  a  vital  seriousness  should  crouch  at  the  root 
of  all  exquisite  fun. 

O'Hara's  despair  was  certainly  serious,  and  Hubert  fur- 
tively reproached  himself,  now  and  then,  for  presuming  to 
hold  it  as  droll. 

"  I  came  to  you — you,  my  nonpareil  of  moral  strength  and 
high  personal  cultivation,"  he  effusively  mourned,  "  and  .  . 
and  did  what  I  did!  Oh,  it's  detestable  ;  it's  .  .  But  it's  just 
like  me !  It  comes  from  sinking  myself  years  ago !  I 
began  well  .  .  -yes,  dear  boy,  I  began  with  as  hot  a  hatred 
for  coarseness  as  you  have  now  !  I've  longed  from  the  first 


DIVIDED  LI^ES.  147 

to  be  .  .  to  be  just  as  fine  and  high  as  you  are  this  minute ! 
I've  ..." 

"  My  dear  O'Hara,"  said  Hubert,  interrupting  him  for  at 
least  the  tenth  time  in  an  outburst  similar  to  that  just 
recorded,  "  I'm  not  fine  and  I'm  not  high.  I'm  quite  as 
human  as  you  are.  Pray  don't  exalt  me  ;  and  pray  forget 
last  night.  I  agree  with  you  that  to  bathe  one's  brain  in 
vinous  fumes  must  always  be  a  wild  imprudence.  Je  me 
suis  encanaille  is  a  good  motto  for  the  man  who  finds  himself 
doing  it.  .  But  I  don't  preach  ;  I  don't  know  any  better  par- 
son than  experience  for  a  man  of  your  age  or  mine." 

O'Hara,  who  had  already  seized  his  hand,  now  wrung  it. 

"There's  that  about  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "which  ought  to 
make  the  whole  world  cherish  you  !  It's  not  so  much  your 
mind  as  it  is  your  nature.  You  find  forgiveness  so  easy  !  " 

Hubert  laughed  softly  at  his  hyperbole.  "  Perhaps  I've 
had  much  more  than  your  peccadillo  to  forgive  in  my  life- 
time," he  said. 

O'Hara's  mind  instantly  flew  to  the  Long  Branch  scandal ; 
he  remembered  how  the  engagement  to  Angela  before  her 
marriage  had  been  heartlessly  bruited  abroad  as  only  news- 
paper cruelty  could  bruit  a  matter  of  such  commandant 
privacy.  But  before  he  could  reply,  Hubert,  with  a  light 
gesture,  as  if  wishing  to  dismiss  the  whole  uncongenial  sub- 
ject, continued  : 

"  You  wanted  some  Ponchatuk  shooting.  They  say,  as  I 
wrote  you,  that  it's  miserable  this  year.  .  .  But  we'll  try  it 
this  morning,  if  you  agree." 

The  shooting  proved  miserable  indeed.  Their  two  dogs 
were  good  "  setters,"  and  the  meadows  they  roamed  had  their 
past  glories  of  exceptional  trouvailles  for  sportsmen.  But 
hardly  a  bird  rose,  and  the  few  that  did  rise  proved  to  be 
hopelessly  far  away.  Either  was  an  excellent  shot.  They 
look  no  servant  with  them.  The  meadows  were  so  near 
Locnstwood  that  to  return  for  lunch  was  at  their  easy  option. 
After  a  little  while  they  became  separated,  and  Hubert,  with 


148  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

one  of  the  dogs  meekly  following,  found  himself  at  the  out- 
skirt  of  a  wood  which  he  knew  well,  having  wandered  it 
often  in  boyhood. 

The  sun  shone  so  bright  outside  its  verge  that  as  he 
passed  now  amid  the  shade  of  the  close  boughs  a  momentary 
dazed  feeling  fell  upon  him.  But  soon  he  saw  quite  clearly 
again.  The  stems  of  oak  and  birch  grew  plain  to  him, 
with  the  little  knots  of  weed  and  of  wild-flower  growths 
at  their  roots.  He  walked  onward  for  a  few  paces.  Sud- 
denly a  dog  of  the  "  pointer"  breed  sprang  growling  toward 
his  own.  He  seized  the  latter  by  the  collar,  but  in  a  trice 
saw  that  there  was  no  danger  of  canine  combat ;  the  differing 
sexes  of  the  two  dogs  made  less  harsh  relations  immediate. 
He  unloosed  his  "setter,"  while  the  "pointer,"  mollified 
and  playful,  began  a  kind  of  gambolling  minuet.  As  he 
went  a  few  paces  onward  he  remembered  that  there  was  a 
small  open  space  in  the  wood  not  far  off,  where  a  huge 
pine-tree  had  fallen,  the  rugged  remnant  of  primeval 
years.  . 

Boughs  of  saplings  pressed  their  tinted  leafage  before  him 
as  he  sought  this  spot.  He  parted  them  with  waving  move- 
ments of  the  right  hand,  holding  his  gun  in  the  left.  On 
he  went,  with  an  idea  that  the  owner  of  the  unexpected 
dog  might  at  any  moment  confront  him. 

He  was  not  mistaken.  A  few  seconds  afterward  he  met 
a  tall  man,  with  a  peculiarly  haggard  face,  standing  by  the 
great  fallen  trunk  of  the  pine  which  had  been  known  to  him 
from  boyhood.  On  the  prone  stretch  of  half-decayed  wood 
lay  spread  a  white  napkin,  with  tokens  of  a  light  repast, 
either  recent  or  in  progress. 

The  man  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  him  as  Hubert 
approached.  It  is  perhaps  true  that  their  mutual  recog- 
nition occurred  at  the  same  instant.  But  Hubert,  for  some 
reason  (possibly  one  born  from  a  sense  of  intrusion)  was  the 
first  to  recoil. 

The  man  whom  he  had  found  in  the  little  glade  where 
lay  the  fallen  pine-trunk,  was  Bleakly  Voght. 


HUBERT  had  started  back,  on  seeing  Voght,  and  with  a 
most  visible  agitation.  Swiftly,  however,  he  regained  what 
looked  to  be  perfect  outward  composure.  But  he  did  not 
speak.  It  seemed  for  him  as  impossible  to  speak  as  to 
retire.  The  latter  course  would,  he  fleetly  realized,  be 
ridiculous.  But  if  he  spoke,  how  equally  ridiculous  would 
be  any  words  that  he  might  say  to  this  man,  whom,  on  last 
meeting  him  at  a  gambling-house  in  Long  Branch,  he  had 
smitten  upon  the  face  ! 

Bloodless,  indeed,  and  like  a  worn-out  invalid's,  that  face 
looked  now  !  Voght  unconsciously  drew  his  brows  together 
as  he  continued  to  stare  at  the  intruder.  And  then  words 
left  him,  spoken  quite  low  and  most  probably  born  of  com- 
bined rage  and  hatred. 

"  So  .  .  it's  you  ?  You've  thrust  yourself  in  upon  me 
here  ? " 

Hubert  felt  his  embarrassment  vanish  on  the  instant.  He 
slightly  raised  his  hat,  and  answered  : 

"  Pardon  me.  I  did  not  thrust  myself  in  upon  you,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  put  it.  I  chanced  to  be  shooting  on  my 
own  grounds," — he  distinctly  accentuated  those  last  three 
words, — "  and  I  passed  into  this  wood  by  the  merest  acci- 
dent." 

"  Your  own  grounds  ! "  burst  from  Voght,  as  he  looked  to 
right  and  left  of  him  in  the  way  that  a  man  might  look  who 
finds  himself  environed  by  hostile  soldiery.  "  I — you're 
mistaken,  sir ;  these  grounds  belong  to  Mr.  Gansevoort 
Lawrence." 

Hubert  smiled.  "  Mr.  Lawrence's  property  begins,"  he 
149 


1 5O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

said,  "  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  eastward.  How- 
ever, it  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence.  You  are  wholly  at 
liberty  to  remain  in  this  wood,  or  to  ramble  about  my  fields  if 
you  so  wish." 

Hubert  was  about  to  lift  his  hat  again  and  quietly  move 
away.  But  merely  to  look  on  his  calm,  gentlemanly  visage 
had  re-opened  Voght's  old  wound.  He  hurried  forward 
several  steps ;  his  lips  and  his  eyes  had  both  grown  sneering 
in  the  extreme,  and  his  voice,  the  next  minute,  was  a  sneer 
also,  as  he  said  : 

"  When  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  sir,  you 
were  not  so  civil  as  I  find  you  to-day." 

"  I  had  less  reason  for  civility  then,  I  think,"  said  Hubert. 
He  scanned  the  grass  at  his  feet,  for  a  moment,  dark-green 
and  cool  under  the  shade  of  the  frosted  trees.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes  again,  and  added  softly,  but  with  much  firm- 
ness :  "  Do  not  you  ?  " 

Voght  gave  a  short,  dry,  harsh  laugh.  "  I'm  not  in  the 
health  I  then  was.  If  I  were,  you  might  find  quite  as  much 
cause  for  calling  me  rude  as  you  then  had  .  ."  His  pale 
lips  writhed  apart  in  a  smile  that  seemed  pregnant  with 
malice,  and  he  lifted  one  tight-shut  hand. 

Hubert  stood  before  him  for  several  seconds  with  com- 
pressed lips  and  a  gaze  that  bespoke  deep  if  swift  reflec- 
tion. Suddenly  he  gave  his  head  a  slight  toss,  and  went  so 
near  to  Voght  that  he  could  with  ease  have  touched  him. 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  that  I  greatly  regret 
what  I  did  that  evening  ?  Your  insult  to  me  was  plain ;  I 
could  not  misunderstand  it ;  and  I  need  not  remind  you  that 
the  general  usage  of  the  world  holds  one  placed  as  I  was  to 
be  without  blame.  But  the  world's  opinion  regarding  such 
matters  cannot  alter  my  own  feelings.  I  believe  that  I  was 
wrong  to  strike  you — that  I  should  have  controlled  the  angry 
impulse  you  roused  in  me.  I  therefore  ask  your  pardon,  and 
ask  it  sincerely,  repentantly." 

He   put    out   his    hand,  and   held   it   for   a   slight   time 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 5 1 

thus  extended.  He  soon  saw,  however,  that  Voght  was 
looking  down  at  it  with  an  undisguised  disdain. 

Hubert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  As  you  will,"  he  said. 
And  now  he  spoke  with  darkening  face,  with  the  flash  of 
threat  in  his  eyes.  "  Wrong  as  I  declare  myself  to  be  in 
having  struck  you,"  he  said,  "  I  insist  that  your  conduct  was 
aggressive,  that  night,  and  my  own  purely  defensive." 

Voght  had  entirely  disbelieved  the  genuineness  of  this 
proffered  truce.  He  had  promptly  become  convinced  that 
Hubert  desired  to  make  up  with  him  for  some  subtle  reason 
wholly  apart  from  any  high  and  noble  liberalism.  'It  is 
she,'  had  darted  through  his  mind,  and  this  abrupt  conviction 
set  his  jaw  at  a  more  ugly  angle,  filled  his  small  gray  eyes 
with  balefuller  sparks.  This  old  lover  had  met  Angela  not 
long  ago — he  had  ridden  on  horseback,  prowlingly  to  the 
very  limit  of  Pineland.  His  present  high-flown  generosity 
breathed  of  some  shrewdly  politic  move.  Perhaps  he  wanted 
to  become  an  ami  intime  in  the  Voght  household — he, 
Angela's  former  lover,  whom  she  had  possibly  never  yet 
ceased  to  care  for  ! 

The  human  brain  can  freight  minute  lapses  of  time 
with  hours  of  self-torment.  This  is  what  now  occurred 
with  Voght.  The  entire  detestable  drama  of  Alva  Averill's 
deceit  swept  before  him  with  electric  speed.  He  reviewed 
everything — the  forced  separation  between  the  lovers,  caused 
by  infamous  guile — the  matrimontal  acquiescence  of  a 
maiden  half-crazed  by  shame  and  disgust — the  probable 
horror  of  him  who  had  permitted  an  evil  woman  to  make 
him  her  dupe — all  this,  and  as  much  more  as  duly  completed 
such  a  malign  sequence  of  facts,  passed  in  repulsive  panorama 
before  his  inward  vision. 

"Your  own  conduct,  sir!  "  he  now  cried,  with  a  bitterness 
that  had  in  it  enough  piercing  reproach  to  have  served  a  far 
better  cause  than  his  own  insensately  jealous  one.  "Pray, 
what  has  that  been  ?  I  am  ill,  as  I  have  told  you — feeble 


152  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

in  body,  and  therefore  not  fit  to  meet  your  new  insult  as  I 
would  meet  it  if  I  were  possessed  of  my  former  strength — " 

"Insult !"  here  exclaimed  Hubert,  with  a  doubt  of  the 
man's  real  sanity  crossing  him,  and  hence  taking  both  from 
his  face  and  voice  all  irate  signs. 

"  Yes — insult !  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  see  through  your 
damned  plan  ? — But  we'll  say  no  more  of  it,  sir  !  You  try 
to  place  yourself  most  adroitly  in  the  right  as  regards  that 
little  affair  at  the  Long  Branch  Club-House.  I  grant  that  I 
gave  you  the  lie  there,  and  I'll  .  .  yes,  I'll  even  grant  that 
what  you  said  about  a  certain  bad  bit  of  scandal  was  true. 
But  how  do  you  presume  to  excuse  yourself  for  having  gone 
with  that  story  to  my  wife  hardly  an  hour  before  then  ? 
What  sort  of  an  action  do  you  call  such  miserable  meanness  ? 
You  had  lost  her  for  yourself,  yet  you  could  not  let  her  re- 
main at  peace  with  me ;  you  must  find  a  chance  to  tell  her 
what  could  only  mean  discomfort,  if  not  the  deepest  wretch- 
edness." 

"  Ah,"  said  Hubert,  with  a  sorrowful  scorn,  "  this  is  mere 
madman's  talk !  I  sought  no  chance  to  tell  your  wife  any- 
thing. A  frightful  act  of  treachery  had  divided  us ;  it  was 
only  through  a  blunder  of  our  host  that  we  were  brought 
together  again  beneath  the  same  roof.  If,  in  the  few  private 
words  I  held  with  your  wife,  I  yielded  to  the  impulse  of 
telling  her  by  just  what  infernal  trickery  we  had  both  been 
snared,  my  motive  was  not  to  create  any  new  unhappiness. 
The  woman  before  me,  I  found,  was  unhappy  enough 
already.  Still,  it  was  but  justice  that  she  should  know  I  was 
not  guilty  of  the  crime  which  had  formed  her  reason  for 
breaking  all  ties  between  us.  What  man,  placed  as  I  was, 
could  or  would  have  acted  differently  ?  " 

"  Crime  !  "  scoffed  Voght.  "  What  right  have  you  to  call 
it  so  ?  What  right  had  you  to  let  her  so  regard  it  ?  "  He 
spoke,  now,  indeed  like  a  madman ;  he  showed  himself  the 
searcher  for  any  pretext,  no  matter  how  flimsy,  wherewith  to 
fling  hostile  sentences  at  Hubert.  "  As  if  you  could  know — 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  153 

you,  a  stranger  to  all  the  events  in  my  life — how  much  at 
fault  I  was,  or  how  little  ?  " 

Hubert  felt  his  face  flushing,  now ;  there  was  something 
that  savored  of  so  despicable  an  attempt  at  bullying  in  this 
new  train  of  pompous  sophistry. 

"  Good  God,  man  !  "  he  retorted,  "  do  you  suppose  I  was 
fool  enough -not  to  make  inquiries  about  the  act  I  had  been 
accused  of,  after  Alva  Averill's  dying  confession  was  made 
to  me !  " 

"  Ah  ?  You  began  inquiries  ?  "  demanded  Voght,  with  a 
sort  of  leering  belligerence.  "  You  played  spy,  in  other 
words  ? " 

"  Yes  !  "  Hubert  cried,  now  stung  to  an  unconquerable 
anger.  "  And  I  found  out  every  fact  regarding  Jane  Heath. 
You  behaved  to  her  like  the  damned  rascal  that  you  are." 
He  wheeled  about  and  passed  to  the  edge  of  the  little  glade, 
where  a  faint  pathway  ran  among  some  golden  birches  and 
scarlet-tinged  maples  that  made  in  comminglement  a  tumult 
of  splendid  tinges.  Here  he  paused,  and  turning  again, 
saw  that  Voght's  face  had  grown  still  more  blanched  and 
furious. 

"  If  the  poor  girl  had  had  a  single  near  male  relation  in 
this  country,"  he  went  on,  "you  might  have  paid  dearly  for 
your  scampish  treatment  of  her.  As  it  was,  her  father  had 
recently  died,  and  except  some  kindred  as  far  off  as  Aus- 
tralia there  was  not  one  of  her  own  blood  to  defend  her. 
That  was  lucky  for  you,  Voght.  The  world  deserves  to 
know  just  what  a  devil  you  made  of  yourself.  You  dare  to 
accuse  me  of  meanness.  If  I  had  your  record  I  should  feel 
like  ending  it  with  this  gun  I  carry.  By  heaven,  there  are 
times  when  I  feel  as  if  I  could  kill  you  myself — not  so  much 
because  you  stand  between  me  and  the  woman  I  cared  for 
immeasurably  and  care  for  still,  but  because  of  that  scoun- 
drelism  so  doubly  base  when  seen  in  a  man  born  and 
trained  as  you've  been  !  " 

He  had  no  sooner  hurled  out  these  assertions,  in  a  ring- 


1 54  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

ing  and  excited  voice,  than  he  regretted  them.  The  desire 
to  rid  his  sight  of  Voght — and  forevermore,  if  fate  would 
concede  him  such  a  boon  ! — was  strongly  uppermost  in  his 
heart  as  he  shifted  his  gun  with  a  rapid  motion  from  one 
arm  to  another,  and  turned  a  second  time,  quickly  losing 
himself  in  the  dense  trees.  But  the  next  instant  a  shrill 
report  cleft  the  stillness,  and  he  knew  that  the  «weapon  in 
his  hold  had  discharged  the  contents  of  a  barrel.  The 
"  kick  "  of  the  gun  would  have  made  him  sure  of  this,  even 
if  its  smoking  muzzle  had  not  promptly  confirmed  the  fact. 
A  hateful  singing  noise,  too,  sounded  in  one  ear,  and  almost 
dazed  him.  But  his  brain  was  clear  enough  to  hit  speedily 
on  the  cause  of  the  explosion,  which  was  no  doubt  a  branch 
that  had  caught  in  the  trigger  of  the  gun  as  he  changed  its 
position.  Immediately,  moreover,  he  realized  that  the  dis- 
charge had  been  toward  the  open  spot  in  which  he  had  left 
Voght.  As  he  hurriedly  parted  the  trees  again,  in  eager 
wish  to  learn  if  any  mischief  could  have  resulted,  a  long, 
wild,  unearthly  shout  smote  on  his  ears. 

That  sound  set  every  nerve  tingling.  He  sprang  past  the 
obscuring  leafage,  and  saw  what  blurred  his  gaze,  for  a 
short  space,  with  its  untold  horror. 

Voght  had  fallen  upon  the  grass.  There  was  a  bleeding 
wound  near  one  of  his  temples.  His  eyes  were  still 
unclosed,  but  they  had  already  begun  to  wear  a  glassy 
vacancy. 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  broke  from  Hubert,  as  he  knelt  down 
beside  the  prostrate  man.  "Voght — you're  terribly  hurt — 
how  can  I  help  you  ?  .  .  Was  it  my  gun  ?  Ah,  it  must  have 
been  !  .  Here,  let  me  bind  up  your  head  with  this."  He 
had  begun  to  tear  a  cambric  handkerchief  in  twain,  when 
the  noise  of  steps  made  him  pause  and  look  round. 

It  was  Bradbourne,  who  had  come  dashing  through  the 
brilliant  autumnal  boughs  almost  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the 
point  at  which  Hubert  had  quitted  them. 

He  carried  his   gun,  but  flung   it  aside  and  fell  on   his 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  155 

knees  quite  close  to  where  Hubert  also  knelt.  He  seemed 
swiftly  to  have  comprehended  that  there  had  been  a  dire 
accident ;  this  was  revealed  in  his  pale  face  and  gasping 
tones,  as  he  addressed  Hubert. 

"  Where  was  he  hurt  ?  .  .  Oh,  I  see  .  .  .  How  was  it 
caused  ?  " 

"  My  gun,"  said  Hubert,  with  a  stifled  groan.  "  Some 
bushes  in  yonder  must  have  caught  the  trigger  .  .  .  Here — 
you're  nearest  his  head.  Just  bind  this  strip  of  handker- 
chief round  it  as  tight  as  you  can ;  then  I'll  give  you 
another.  The  chief  thing  to  think  of  now  is  stopping  the 
blood.  Afterward  we'll — " 

Bradbourne  was  about  to  obey  when  Voght's  hand  lifted 
itself  and  made  a  most  strange  motion  toward  Hubert. 
Over  the  ghastly,  blood-stained  face  there  had  come  a  look 
of  fierce  detestation.  But  very  soon  the  eyes  of  the 
wounded  man  closed,  and  his  head  sank  quite  inert  on  the 
grass. 

'  Is  he  dead  ? '  thought  Hubert.  In  a  few  minutes  he  and 
Bradbourne  together  had  bound  up  Voght's  head.  But  just 
as  they  had  completed  (and  very  ineffectually)  their  forlorn 
task,  O'Hara  appeared  in  the  glade.  He  was  soon  followed 
by  the  coachman  who  had  driven  Voght  and  his  servant 
over  from  Pineland,  and  who  had  been  waiting  with  his 
vehicle  not  far  away.  Two  other  men  accompanied  the 
coachman  ;  they  were  workmen,  and  had  been  cutting  corn- 
stalks in  a  neighboring  field.  All  three  had  heard  the  shot 
sound  within  the  wood,  and  all  three  had  heard  Voght's  hor- 
rible cry. 

With  O'Hara  it  had  not  been  quite  the  same.  The  wind 
had,  in  a  measure,  blown  the  cry  away  from  him,  though  he 
had  very  plainly  heard  the  shot  which  preceded  it.  He  was 
considerably  farther  from  the  glade  than  the  men  had  been, 
but  he  had  instantly  gone  in  search  of  Hubert,  half  curious, 
half  worried;  and  his  long,  alert  limb:  had,  in  consequence, 


1 56  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

brought  him  at  a  fleet  pace  to  the  spot  where  Voght  was 
lying. 

There  were  now  six  men  gathered  about  the  unfortunate 
man.  For  some  time  Hubert  had  felt  doubtful  as  to 
whether  Voght  still  breathed  or  no  ;  and  now,  with  a  sudden 
shivering  movement,  the  latter  not  only  unclosed  his  eyes 
but  showed  their  look  to  be  endued  with  intelligence  vivid  as 
it  was  perhaps  flickering.  Once  again,  just  as  he  had  done 
a  little  while  ago,  he  uplifted  one  hand  and  made  with  it 
motions  toward  Hubert.  But  at  present  the  gestures  were 
more  expressive  of  a  decided  meaning,  and  this  meaning 
unmistakably  denoted  extreme,  loathing  repulsion.  A  frown 
of  great  malignancy  accompanied  them,  and  seemed  to 
darken  with  each  tremulous  back-drawing  of  the  upraised 
fingers.  All  hint  of  film  had  now  passed  from  the  small 
gray  eyes,  as  if  the  scathing  fire  that  brimmed  them  had 
burnt  it  away.  Twice  or  thrice  he  struggled  to  speak  and 
failed.  Then,  at  last,  the  choked  and  husky  voice  found 
articulate  power : 

"  He,  there  .  .  that  man,  Throckmorton,  shot  me  .  .  .  It  was 
purposely  done  ..."  For  a  second  or  so  it  seemed  as  if 
those  would  be  his  final  words,  as  if  no  immensity  of  effort 
could  drag  forth  another  from  the  colorless  and  fluttering 
lips.  But  at  length  he  did  speak  again,  and  to  Hubert  his 
convulsed  face  wore  a  satanic  malignancy  as  he  panted 
forth : 

"He  meant  to  kill  me  .  .  .  'twas  no  accident  .  .  .  he  meant 
to  kill  me,  and  .  .  he  .  .  did!" 

"  Ah  !  no  !  no ! "  cried  Hubert,  with  a  note  of  agonized 
denial  in  his  voice. 

But  by  this  time  Voght's  head  had  sunk  backward,  his 
accusing  hand  had  fallen  forceless,  and  the  next  instant  that 
change  which  none  of  us  can  see  on  the  face  of  a  fellow- 
creature  without  knowing  it  past  all  chance  of  error,  had 
overspread  his  features. 

He  had  died,  then  and  there,  with  the  charge  against 
Hubert  as  his  murderer  the  last  utterance  on  his  lips. 


XI. 

STUPEFIED,  Hubert  remained  standing.  The  bright-dyed 
woods  were  reeling  all  about  him.  A  monstrous  oppression, 
as  of  guilt,  weighed  on  his  brain  ;  he  strove  to  shake  it  off, 
yet  with  a  failure  that  he  innately  knew  to  be  mere  nervous 
dismay.  He  glanced  downward  and  saw  that  some  of  the 
group  were  preparing  to  bear  away  Voght.  Suddenly  a 
hand  fell  upon  his  arm.  He  shuddered,  drew  back,  and 
then  burst  into  a  wild  yet  soft  laugh  that  had  almost  the 
intonation  of  mania. 

It  was  O'Hara  who  had  approached  him.  "What  does 
this  mean  ? "  came  the  latter's  eager  question.  Then 
Hubert  saw  that  the  speaker  was  avidly  searching  his  face. 
"You — you  heard  what  he  said?"  O'Hara  hurried  on, 
pointing  toward  the  group  that  had  gathered  round  Voght. 
"  You  heard,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hubert,  trying  to  moisten  his  lips,  that 
felt  as  if  they  had  become  like  son\e  sort  of  flexible  chalk  ; 
"  yes,  I  heard." 

The  next  minute  O'Hara's  hand  had  caught  his  own,  and 
was  pressing  it  with  a  vigor  that  would,  at  any  other  time, 
have  caused  him  pain. 

"  It  isn't  true  !  "  burst  from  his  friend,  now.  "  It  isn't. 
I  don't  ask  you  whether  it  is  or  not,  Hubert  Throckmorton  ! 
I  simply  say,  and  I  mean,  and  I  know,  as  I  know  that  the 
sun  shines,  as  I  know  that  I'm  alive  and  breathe,  that  //  isn't 
true!  there,  now — do  you  understand  me?  He  was  mis- 
taken— he  fancied  it  was  you.  Or,  if  it  was,  you  did  it  by 
accident — you  must  have  done  it  by  accident !" 

Hubert  grasped  at  those  two  words.  They  seemed  to 
157 


158  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

strike  a  rational  ray  through  his  confused  brain  and  give 
him  a  kind  of  inlet  for  sane  thought. 

"  By  accident,"  he  repeated.  "  Yes,  O'Hara,  it  was  that. 
He  may  have  believed  otherwise — I  suppose  he  did." 

"  You  suppose  he  did  !  "  echoed  the  Irishman,  in  a  fleet, 
troubled  whisper.  He  made  a  sign  in  the  direction  of  the 
men  who  were  now  lifting  Voght  from  the  turf.  "  Be  care- 
ful. How  could  he  suppose  such  a  thing  ?  were  you  not 
near  one  another  ? " 

Hubert  pointed  toward  the  thick  trees  whence  he  had  so 
lately  emerged.  "  I — I  was  in  there,"  he  faltered. 

"Then  he  did  not  see  you  ?     How  is  that  possible  ? " 

"  See  me  ?     He  had  seen  me  a  short  time  before." 

"  Ah  !  you  had  met,  then  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  exchanged  words  together  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  They  were  .  .  .  angry  words  ?  " 

"  They  were  very  angry,  on  both  sides." 

A  short,  vehement  sigh  left  O'Hara.  "  The  devil  they 
were  !  "  he  muttered,  under  his  breath.  "  Ah,  if  those  four 
other  men  had  only  not  heard  him  speak  as  he  did  !  .  .  . 
Well,  after  leaving  him  you — you  went  in  yonder  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You  were  going  away  from  him  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Just  to  end  the  quarrel,  and  for  no  other  reason  ?  " 

" What  other  reason  could  I  have  had?"  Hubert  asked. 
"  I  began  by  asking  the  man  to  pardon  me  for  that  blow  I 
struck  him  at  Long  Branch.  He  refused  to  take  my  hand, 
and  soon  became  sarcastic,  insolent,  abusive  .  .  .  But 
though  I  retorted  hotly  enough,  I  did  not  choose  to  remain 
and  wrangle  like  that,  so  said  my  say  and  left  him  ...  I 
had  got  but  a  few  yards  into  the  wood  when  I  shifted  my 
gun  "  (here  he  made  a  descriptive  gesture)  "  and  as  I  did  so 
one  of  its  barrels  went  off.  Immediately  after  that  a  great 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  \  59 

cry  sounded  from  Voght.  I  hastened  toward  him  and 
found  that  the  charge  had  wounded  him  as  you  saw." 

'  And  soon  afterward,'  sped  the  pained  thoughts  of 
O'Hara,  '  Voght  died,  accusing  you,  before  five  witnesses, 
of  having  deliberately  killed  him.  A  rather  bad  showing, 
it  must  be  owned  ! ' 

But  aloud  he  murmured,  close  at  Hubert's  ear,  with  a 
voice  full  of  the  deepest  meaning  : 

"  Speak  scarcely  a  word  in  the  presence  of  these  men. 
Let  me  do  all  the  talking  that  is  needed.  You  must  under- 
stand why  this  bit  of  counsel  is  given  you." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hubert,  after  a  little  pause  ;  "  I  will  do 
as  you  say." 

A  slight  while  before  that  he  had  seen,  or  fancied  that  he 
had  seen,  one  of  the  workmen  give  him  a  furtive  and  rather 
scowling  look.  Whether  reality  or  imagination,  the  effect 
of  this  impression  had  been  poignant  as  a  knife-stab. 

Angela  was  seated  in  her  room  at  Pineland,  answering  an 
invitation  which  her  husband  and  herself  had  lately  received 
to  go  and  spend  a  week  at  Newport.  Somehow,  while 
describing  Voght's  wretched  ailments  to  the  lady  who  had 
made  kind  proffer  of  hospitalities,  Angela  fell  into  a  train 
of  rather  morbid  thoughts  regarding  her  own  destiny.  Surely 
it  was  slave-like  enough  !  She  was  going  to  do  her  best 
with  it,  but  each  year  would  bring  her,  she  knew,  a  more 
desolating  fatigue,  a  more  heart-breaking  oppression.  For 
some  time  she  had  sat  there  in  the  big,  still  room,  with  pen 
poised  over  her  sheet  of  half-filled  note-paper.  The  house, 
was  so  large  that  a  good  deal  of  noise  might  be  made  in 
certain  parts  of  it  without  becoming  audible  in  others.  The 
window  near  which  Angela  sat  opened  upon  the  rear  portion 
of  the  pine-shaded  lawns.  Hence  it  so  occurred  that  she 
neither  saw  the  vehicle  which  bore  her  dead  husband  home 
nor  overheard  any  of  the  alarmed  bustle  which  his  ghastly 
return  created  among  the  servants.  And  O'Hara,  who  had 


l6o  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

made  himself  an  apt  and  able   superintendent  of  all   that 
must  now  inevitably  and  solemnly  occur,  had  arranged  to 
have  the  whole  grisly  tidings  kept  from  Mrs.  Voght  until  the 
dead  man  was  laid  peacefully  within  one  of  the  down-stairs  * 
chambers. 

Hubert  had  found  himself  forced  to  endure  a  most  harrow- 
ing little  episode  after  the  body  had  been  placed  in  the  wag- 
on which  had  brought  it  alive  to  the  shooting-grounds.  He 
had  then  turned  to  O'Hara,  saying  : 

"  I  will  go  back  to  Locustwood,  now.  It  is  best  that  I 
should ;  you  understand  why,  of  course.  Come  over  to  me, 
will  you,  as  soon  as  possible  ?  " 

The  coachman,  whose  name  was  Hugh  Magee,  and  who 
had  been  for  years  in  the  employment  of  Voght,  started  a 
little  as  he  imbibed  the  sense  of  these  low-uttered  yet  dis- 
tinct words.  He  was  an  intelligent  man,  with  character 
and  some  rather  bovine  obstinacy  as  well  in  his  clean-shorn, 
florid  face.  Several  times  Voght  had  discharged  him  for 
"  answering  back  "  when  reprimanded,  though  later  clemency 
had  always  re-installed  him  in  his  former  position  as  master 
of  the  stables.  Whether  an  affection  for  his  employer  ex- 
isted or  not  on  the  part  of  Magee,  some  sort  of  relative  mu- 
tual adaptability  did  certainly  exist  between  the  two  men,  in 
their  differing  social  grades.  The  death  of  Voght  had  been 
a  horrible  shock  to  the  coachman,  and  those  words  delivered 
actually  with  the  sufferer's  dying  breath  had  formed  an 
ample  factor  of  his  present  emotion. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  now  said,  looking  straight  at  Hu- 
bert, whom  he  knew  well  by  sight  and  of  whose  former  quar- 
rel with  Voght  he  had  long  ago  learned  every  particular, 
"  but  considerin'  how  things  has  turned  out  I'm  afraid  it 
won't  be  right  for  you  to  go  off  that  way  alone." 

Hubert's  brow  darkened.  That  a  servant  should  dictate 
to  him  was  indeed  a  novel  sensation.  And  yet  his  natural 
wide-minded  tolerance  and  charity  would  have  perhaps 
caused  him  to  answer  Magee  with  a  good  deal  qf  sensible 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  l6l 

calmness,  had  not  a  harsh,  fierce  oath  now  suddenly  sounded 
from  one  of  the  workmen. 

"  Not  a  divil  a  bit  does  he  get  loose,"  the  same  fellow 
proceeded,  eying  Hubert  in  a  most  ugly  way,  "  so  long  as 
I've  a  pair  o'  legs  to  catch  up  wid  'im.  If  he's  kilt  a  man  in 
cold  blood,  he  mus'  wait  till  the  law  o'  the  land  takes  its 
coorse,  so  he  must !  " 

The  Bother  workman,  endowed  with  a  less  assertive  spirit, 
contented  himself  by  an  emphatic  grunt,  coupled  with  a 
hitch  of  his  dingy  blue  overalls. 

Hubert's  eyes  were  blazing  by  this  time.  "  Let  me  see 
one  of  you  men  dare  to  prevent  me  from  returning  home  !  " 
he  said.  "  I  am  ready  to  answer  for  everything  I  have  done 
when  called  upon.  I  have  killed  no  man  in  cold  blood — " 

"  Then  the  gentleman  that's  layin'  here,"  broke  in  the  last 
speaker,  "  towld  a  lie  win  death  itself  had  a  holt  on  'im.  An' 
I  guess  that  ain't  much  likely !  " 

With  a  grin  that  disclosed  scarlet  gums  and  yellow  teeth, 
the  man  looked  about  him  as  if  for  confirmation  of  his  grew- 
some  logic  and  approval  of  his  defiant  attitude.  That  grin 
seemed  to  Hubert  of  a  more  hobgoblin  hideousness  than 
any  which  he  had  ever  seen  on  mortal  face.  Just  then, 
O'Hara  threw  an  arm  about  his  shoulders  and  drew  him 
slightly  aside. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  O'Hara  began,  in  excessively  earnest 
whisper,  "  you'd  best  make  no  objection  and  just  come 
along  with  us.  This  fellow  in  a  certain  way  is  really  right. 
You  know,  after  what  Voght  said  when  he  was  dy —  But 
never  mind  about  that  now.  Take  my  advice  and  come 
along  with  us." 

Hubert  began  to  feel  that  chill  which  will  creep  about 
the  bravest  heart  when  surety  that  one  has  put  himself 
under  ban  of  the  law  becomes  definite. 

"  But  you  are  going  to — to  his  house,"  was  the  answer 
soon  received  by  O'Hara. 


1 62  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  Yes,"  the  latter  said.  "  Of  course  we  must  go  there 
with  the  body." 

Hubert  shuddered.     "  /go  there  \  "  he  faltered. 

O'Hara  gave  a  great  start  and  involuntarily  drew  a  little 
away  from  him.  Hubert  reached  out  one  hand  in  a  helpless, 
piteous  manner. 

"  You — you  doubt  me,"  he  said,  in  a  half-choked  voice. 
"O'Hara — you  do !  I  see  it  in  your  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,"  came  the  swift  interruption,  as  Hubert  felt  his 
hand  again  warmly  clasped.  "  I'll  be  frank — just  for  an 
instant  I  did  doubt  you.  But  it's  past ;  I'll  never  have  that 
feeling  again,  old  fellow.  And  I  remember,  now,  precisely 
why  you  should  feel  a  reluctance  about  going  there.  I've 
heard,  of  course,  that  his  wife — that  you  and  she  once  .  .  ." 

"  Were  engaged  to  marry  one  another,"  said  Hubert. 

"Yes.  But  it  need  not  be  so  intensely  painful  to  you. 
That  is,  I  will  smooth  matters  for  you  as  much  as  I  possibly 
can.  There  must  be  an  inquest,  you  know — and  this  after- 
noon, I  suppose.  Do  not  speak  another  word.  Go  with 
myself  and  these  men,  quietly.  You  and  I  will  walk  by  the 
wagon,  arm-in-arm.  Leave  all  the  talking  to  me  ;  pay  no 
heed  to  anyone  except  myself." 

'  How  strange  ! '  O'Hara  thought,  a  little  later.  '  What 
swift  intimacies  calamity  deals  in !  Much  as  I  cared  for 
Hubert  Throckmorton,  I  have  always  felt  that  an  impas- 
sable little  mound  of  ceremony  rose  between  us.  It  has  been 
something,  too,  not  so  much  made  by  caste  as  by  that  secure 
moral  superiority  of  his,  evasive  yet  undeniable,  and  which 
you  hear  in  the  very  creak  of  his  boots  or  see  in  the  very 
poise  of  his  walking-stick.  But  now  a  mere  flash  of  time 
has  done  what  years  of  ordinary  acquaintance  couldn't  have; 
done.  He's  in  trouble,  needs  me,  and  presto !  we're  equal. 
God  bless  him  !  By  just  standing  up  for  him  through  thick 
and  thin  and  proving  what  a  friend  I  can  be  when  such  a 
man  as  he  wants  one,  I  may  get  a  certain  queer  sort  of  self- 
absolution  .  .  .  why  not  ?  I've  done  a  lot  of  things  in  my, 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  163 

day  that  I'm  more  than  half  ashamed  of.  Now  for  some- 
thing to  be  a  good  deal  more  than  half  proud  of — sticking 
fast  to  a  man  like  that  when  he's  down  and  almost  up  to  his 

arm-pits  in  mire.  .  .  And  d it  all,  he'll  be  lucky  if  the 

mire  doesn't  close  over  his  head  ! ' 

Voght's  body  had  been  brought  into  the  house  and  laid  in 
one  of  the  lower  drawing-rooms  before  Angela  was  even  per- 
mitted to  suspect  that  anything  extraordinary  had  happened. 
Then  a  pale,  scared  maid-servant  knocked  at  her  door,  and 
in  a  little  while  she  was  being  told  everything  that  had 
occurred,  gradually  and  with  a  most  exquisite  tact,  by  a  tall 
man  who  had  a  reddish  moustache,  hazel  eyes,  and  a  won- 
derfully sympathetic  voice  and  look.  This,  of  course,  was 
O'Hara,  and  their  memorable  conference  took  place  in  a 
small  sitting-room  which  communicated  with  the  library. 
O'Hara  proved  himself  possessed  of  astonishing  skill  as  a 
bearer  of  dread  intelligence.  He  had  guessed  instinctively 
that  the  news  of  her  husband's  death  would  deal  Angela  no 
sharp  pang  of  grief,  however  seriously  it  might  shock  her 
nerves  ;  for,  having  had  some  experience  in  the  personality 
of  Bleakly  Voght,  it  seemed  incredible  to  him  that  so 
sweetly  human-looking  a  creature  as  the  lady  whom  he 
addressed  should  have  loved  so  thoroughly  ill-favored  a 
spouse.  Before  the  talk  had  progressed  very  far  he  was 
ready,  with  his  impetuous  Irish  way  of  drawing  conclusions 
about  people,  to  wager  that  there  must  have  been  some  pow- 
erful emotional  reason  to  have  caused  a  separation  between 
his  admired  Hubert  and  a  fianc/e  of  such  enchanting  per- 
sonal attractiveness.  Minutes  like  these  that  now  passed 
between  himself  and  Angela  will  reveal  truths  which  months 
of  ordinary  intercourse  fail  to  betray.  As  the  exact  details 
of  the  shooting  began  to  imprint  themselves  on  Mrs.  Voght's 
mind,  he  could  not  but  observe  the  peculiar  quality  of  that 
agitation  which  she  strove  almost  pathetically  to  hide.  At 


164  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

last  it  was  all  clear  to  her,  and  she  stood  pale  and  tremulous 
before  his  wistful,  searching,  expectant  gaze. 

"I  am  glad  you  bear  it  so  well,"  he  said,  at  last  breaking 
the  little  pause  that  had  ensued  upon  his  sentences  of  purely 
expository  recital. 

"  Bear  it  so  well  ?  "  her  pale  lips  repeated.  She  pressed 
the  backs  of  the  fingers  of  either  hand  against  either  momen- 
tarily closed  eye.  "  It — it  isn't  at  all  real  to  me  yet.  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  dreaming  it — and  in  some  hateful  nightmare." 
She  looked  at  him  suddenly,  with  a  wild  piaintiveness. 
"  And  you  believe  they  will  accuse  Hu —  Mr.  Throckmorton 
of  having  intended  to  kill  my  husband  ?  " 

"  My  dear  lady,"  said  O'Hara,  as  he  lifted  both  hands 
with  a  gesture  at  once  deploring  and  deprecating,  "  I  am 
reluctant  enough  to  believe  so ;  and  yet  it  now  seems  un- 
avoidable !  " 

"  Those  words  that  you  all  heard  him  say,"  she  ran  on, 
feverishly — "  the  words  that  made  it  appear  as  if  Mr. 
Throckmorton  were  guilty !  Those  will  have  a  terrible 
weight,  I  suppose."  Her  voice  broke,  and  she  tried  to  hide 
an  inward  shiver  as  she  added,  with  a  glance  of  most  fervid 
appeal  at  her  listener :  "  Tell  me — do  you  think  they  would 
have  weight  enough  to — to  ?  .  .  — But  you  know,  you  know  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  O'Hara,  solemnly,  after  a  slight  silence; 
"  But  I  don't  think  that  .  .  .  Your  husband,"  he  continued, 
wishing  to  change  the  subject,  or  at  least  the  dismal  view  of 
it  just  selected,  "  is  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms — as  I  may 
have  mentioned  to  you  before.  Is  it  your  wish  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  See  him  ?  "  she  panted,  rising.  "  Oh,  yes  ;  I  must — I 
mean,  it  will  be  right  for  me  to  do  so,  and  at  once  ;  will  it 
not  ?  " 

She  said  this  so  excitedly,  helplessly,  and  irresponsibly 
that  O'Hara  felt  a  fresh  pang  of  pity  for  her  pierce  his  heart. 
It  was  evident  to  him  that  though  she  desired  to  do  what 
would  seem  "  right,"  she  nevertheless  felt  herself  shrinking 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  165 

in  spirit,  just  then,  from  the  idea  of  looking  upon  her  hus- 
band's dead  face. 

"  If  you  are  at  all  unstrung  now,  Mrs.  Voght,"  he  there- 
fore gently  said  to  her,  at  this  point,  "  I  should  advise  you 
not  to  go  and  see  him  yet.  You  can  wait  until  later — 
a  little  while  before  the  inquest — if  you  prefer." 

"  The  inquest  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Oh  .  .  there  is  to  be 
one  then  ?  " 

"There  must  be.     They  have  gone,  now,  for  the  coroner." 

"  And  they  will  hold  the  inquest  here  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  there  is  no  other  place.  This  house  is 
so  far  from  any  of  the  hotels ;  it's  off  here  so  alone  by 
itself." 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  while  he  stood  at 
her  side,  watching  her  and  wondering  whether  or  no  he 
would  turn  out  a  correct  prophet  as  to  the  question  that 
she  would  presently  ask  him. 

It  proved  to  be  just  the  one  he  had  expected.  "  If 
the  inquest  is  held  here,"  she  asked  him,  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  once  more,  liquid  and  burning  with  anxious  fires, 
"  will  not  Mr.  Throckmorton  be  obliged  to  come  ?  " 

"  Here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Here  ?  "  O'Hara  softly  iterated ;  and  then  with  a  faint 
smile,  he  added  :  "  That  will  not  be  necessary ;  he  is  here, 
now." 

"  Here  now  ! "  She  gave  a  violent  start,  and  the  color 
surged  up  to  her  temples,  afterward  leaving  her  whole  face 
perhaps  paler  than  before. 

O'Hara  pointed  to  a  heavy  mahogany  door,  closed  be- 
tween this  room  and  the  library.  "  He  is  in  there,"  said 
Hubert's  friend.  "  He  is  .  .  waiting,  you  know.  Will  you 
not  go  in  and  see  him  for  a  little  while  ?  You  and  he  have 
already  met,  I  think."  O'Hara  tried  to  make  his  mode  of 
speaking  that  last  sentence  as  neutral  a  one  as  possible. 

She  had  turned  a  good  deal  away  from  him,  but  he  could 


1 66  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

see  across  one  of  her  shoulders  that  she  had  got  the  fingers 
of  both  hands  tensely  tangled  together  and  that  she  was 
gnawing  her  underlip  so  that  every  second  or  two  a  white 
gleam  showed  from  her  teeth.  Quite  a  long  silence  followed 
between  them,  and  then  she  abruptly  broke  it  by  facing  him 
full  again  and  asking : 

"  Does  he  expect  me  ? " 

"  I  can't  be  sure  of  that,"  returned  O'Hara,  with  sombre 
diplomacy.  "  Shall  I  go  and  tell  him  that  you  will  .  .  a  .  . 
look  in  upon  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  shortly  and  quite  vetoingly.  She  at  once 
seemed  to  meditate  again,  standing  with  her  head  bent,  and 
her  form  as  full  of  pliant  curves  as  though  she  had  been  a 
lily  in  a  breeze. 

Until  now  O'Hara  had  taken  for  granted  that  her  skepti- 
cism regarding  Hubert's  guilt  was  just  as  cogent  as  his  own. 
But  now,  for  the  first  time,  a  doubt  of  her  disbelief  crossed 
him.  "Pardon  me,"  he  presently  said;  "but  after  the 
account  I  have  given  you  of  all  that  has  happened  and  of 
just  how  decided  has  been  Mr.  Throckmorton's  assertion 
that  the  shooting  was  wholly  accidental,  I  can't  help  wishing 
to  know  whether  you  yourself  hold  the  man  whom  your  hus- 
band accused  as  really  guilty  of  crime." 

"  Guilty  of  crime  !  "  This  first  brief  reply,  all  in  one  key 
of  indignant  amazement,  shot  forth  like  an  arrow.  The 
others  followed  more  slowly,  but  they  were  forceful  enough 
to  leave  O'Hara  very  firm  in  his  opinion  as  to  how  criminal 
Angela  Voght  esteemed  the  recent  unhappy  act  of  Hubert. 

"  He  no  more  deliberately  meant  to  kill  my  husband," 
she  pursued,  "  than  I  deliberately  mean  to  kill  you  at  this 
moment.  I  am  as  certain  of  it  as  I  am  of  my  name,  my  birth, 
my  coming  death — anything  of  which  one  can  be  certain. 
What  my  husband  said  just  before  dying  may  have  been  a 
mistake,  a  delusion,  or  it  may  have  been  ..." 

'  A  jealous,  malicious  lie,'  O'Hara  mentally  supplied,  as 
Angela  paused,  and  with  the  intonation  of  one  who  has 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 67 

ventured  among  imprudences.  '  Ah,'  he  added,  still  to  him- 
self, '  this  woman  is  aware  what  manner  of  man  she  married 
— she  has  gauged  all  his  capabilities  and  potentialities  of 
mischief ! ' 

Soon  after  this  he  perceived  that  Angela  gave  every  sign 
of  being  beset  by  new  painful  reflections.  He  watched  her 
as  she  began  to  pace  with  what  was  no  doubt  unconscious 
restlessness  a  small  tract  of  carpet  immediately  adjacent  to 
that  big  mahogany  door  behind  which  he  felt  sure  that 
Hubert  yet  remained.  But  at  length  she  came  to  a  stand- 
still, and  as  she  did  so  she  addressed  O'Hara. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  in  and  see  Mr.  Throckmorton.  I — I 
don't  know  of  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  go  ;  do  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  every  reason  why  you  should  go,"  replied 
O'Hara  urgently. 

She  glanced  from  object  to  object  throughout  the  room, 
with  turns  of  the  head  that  had  the  quickness  and  grace  of  a 
bird's ;  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  made  her  resolve  and 
now  would  receive  some  stringent  reprimand  from  somewhere 
— the  furniture,  it  might  be,  or  the  bodiless  air  itself. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  expect  me  ?  "  she  asked,  and  he 
now  saw  that  she  had  moved  very  close  to  the  door  and  had 
even  reached  out  one  hand  toward  the  knob,  letting  it  fall 
a  minute  later.  "Don't  you  think  that  he  will  consider  it 
dreadfully  ill-timed  of  me  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  I  do  not,"  answered  O'Hara.  "  Of  course 
this  is  a  frightful  blow  to  him.  It  may  turn  out  that  every 
friend  he  has  will  refuse  to  believe  his  story — that  is,  except 
you  and  myself.  I  think  that  if  you  go  to  him  now  you  may 
give  him  fresh  courage  and  strength  for  those  piercing 
ordeals  through  which  he  will  be  compelled  to  pass." 

"  Then  I  will  surely  go,"  she  said ;  and  there  swept  a 
gladness  over  her  face  that  for  some  vague  reason  reminded 
him  of  starlight.  "Yes,"  she  continued,  with  a  slight  catch- 
'  ing  of  the  breath,  "  I  will  go  at  once."  And  she  put  her 


1 68  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

hand  quietly  on   the   knob  and  passed  into  the  library  with- 
out another  word,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

O'Hara,  as  he  observed  her,  asked  himself  why  she  had 
apparently  not  even  thought  of  knocking.  Was  it  because 
she  dreaded  the  effect  which  the  very  sound  of  Hubert's 
voice  might  produce  upon  her  ?  The  Irishman  had  known 
some  women  intimately  in  the  past.  Something  made  him 
almost  certain  that  this  was  why  the  widow  of  the  dead  man 
now  glided  almost  stealthily  into  the  next  room  as  she  did. 


XII. 

THE  library  at  Pineland  was  a  really  lovely  old  room,  and 
altogether  the  most  tasteful  that  the  house  contained.  The 
kinsman  who  left  Voght  this  estate  had  spent  years  in  col- 
lecting rare  books,  and  had  placed  them  in  a  chamber  that 
looked  as  if  its  heavy  oaken  wood-work,  its  polished  floor, 
and  its  monstrous  fireplace  surmounted  by  a  superb  mantel 
of  carved  black  marble,  were  all  quite  unfamiliar  with  even 
the  existence  of  our  western  continent,  not  to  mention  that 
small  segment  of  it  known  as  Ponchatuk,  Long  Island. 
Voght  had  always  detested  this  room ;  he  used  to  affirm  that 
it  gave  him  the  horrors,  it  was  so  gloomy.  He  liked  bright 
walls,  with  gay  patterns  in  them,  like  those  of  his  own  ill-tied 
cravats.  Gloomy  the  library  certainly  was,  but  Angela 
loved  it  all  the  more,  during  certain  moods,  on  this  very 
account.  She  had  often  read  pages  of  Gknalvan  over  and 
over  again  while  seated  there  ;  and  more  than  once  she  had 
heard  the  tones  of  a  certain  unforgettable  voice  float  among 
its  silences. 

To  see  Hubert  standing  there,  now,  with  one  of  the  black 
marble  mantel-columns  behind  his  golden  head,  and  a  shaft 
of  sunshine  intensifying  both  the  pallor  of  his  face  and 
the  delicacy  of  its  high-bred  profile,  was  for  Angela  more 
like  reminiscence  than  actual  and  novel  experience.  She 
went  toward  him  with  the  still  step  of  a  ghost  and  with  eyes 
that  peered  at  him  in  that  eagerly  straining  look  we  some- 
times give  to  those  whom  we  immeasurably  pity. 

He  returned  her  gaze  in  such  a  troubled  and  dubious  way 
that  when  she  had  reached  the  great,  cheerless,  empty  fire- 
place near  which  he  was  standing,  she  broke  into  a  note  or 
169 


I/O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

two  of  listless,  dreary  laughter.  Then  as  if  this  grim  kind 
of  masquerading  in  the  role  of  mirth-maker  had  supplied  her 
with  some  sort  of  initiatory  verbal  formula,  she  began  by 
saying : 

"  I  .  .  I  came  in  so  softly,  did  I  not,  that  I'm  afraid  you 
must  be  wondering  if  I'm  not  my  own  shadow." 

And  then,  trying  to  smile  with  her  wan  lips,  and  knowing 
that  she  wofully  failed,  she  let  both  arms  fall  at  her  sides 
and  stood  before  him,  stirred  by  unutterable  compassion. 

Hubert  had  scarcely  moved.  She  saw  how  intently  he 
was  looking  at  her.  She  waited  for  him  to  speak,  and 
meanwhile  a  qualm  of  shame  hurt  her  for  having  sought  to 
hide  her  own  piteous  disarray  at  an  hour  like  this  behind  the 
least  meagre  similitude  of  a  jest.  '  I  ought  to  have  hurried 
right  up  to  him,'  now  sped  through  her  mind,  'and  assured 
him  that  he  had  always  one  devout,  unalterable  believer  in 
his  perfect  innocence  .  .  .  But  might  not  even  such  an  ap- 
proach as  that  have  wounded  him  ?  Has  it  not  been  best 
for  me  to  wait  until  he  asks  me  whether  I  doubt  him  or  no  ? 
Then  I  can  tell  him  how  confident  I  am  !  ...  then  .  .  . 
then  ! ' 

"  I  hoped  you  would  come,"  he  presently  said,  with  some- 
thing underneath  his  characteristic  calmness  that  was  like 
the  sense  of  push  and  throb  a  smooth  yet  swollen  lapse  of 
sea  will  sometimes  rouse  in  us.  "  I  was  not  sure,  how- 
ever .  .  .  Well,  you  have  come,  and  there's  that  about  you, 
somehow,  which  leads  me  to  hope  in  .  .  in  another  direc- 
tion." He  left  the  dark  height  of  stone  that  had  thus  far 
made  so  relieving  a  background  for  his  head  and  frame  ;  he 
drew  nearer  to  her  and  put  forth  one  hand — his  right  hand. 
And  then  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  great  appeal,  of  great  sorrow  : 

"  You  must  have  been  told  it  all  by  this  time.  O'Hara 
promised  me  that  he  would  see  you  at  once  and  make  every- 
thing clear  ...  So,  now,  you  don't  believe,  do  you,  that  I 
could  meaningly,  wilfully  have  done  anything  so  infamous  as 
that  ? " 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


171 


She  sprang  close  to  his  side.  Her  eyes  burned  into  his 
unhappy  soul  as  she  answered  him  : 

"  Believe  it !  If  you  swore  to  me  now  that  it  was  not  an 
accident  I  should  .  .  .  yes,  I  should  say  you  had  gone  mad 
and  fancied  yourself  guilty  !  You  !  oh,  Hubert !  ,  .  ."  And 
then  she  stopped  short,  frowning  troublously  and  moving 
her  fair,  delicate  head  from  right  to  left,  as  though  she  were 
looking  for  some  ethereal  ally,  shaped  out  of  the  blended 
dusk  and  sunshine  of  the  peaceful  room,  to  come  and  verify 
before  him  her  sincere  and  unswerving  faith. 

Hubert  stared  down  at  one  of  her  hands  as  if  he  wanted 
to  touch  it ;  but  he  did  not  do  so.  He  soon  spoke,  however. 
"  Pardon  me  if  I  have  misunderstood  you,"  he  said.  "  Once, 
you  know,  I  had  reason  to  recognize  your  .  .  your  lack  of 
trust  in  me." 

The  stab  went  home,  with  her.  "  True,"  she  said,  just 
loud  enough  for  him  to  hear.  Then  she  added,  while  her 
voice  rose  again  :  "  That  sort  of  distrust  is  so  different !  " 

"  Well,  I  thank  you,"  said  Hubert,  "  for  the  faith  you 
show  now."  He  smiled,  and  with  what  struck  her  as  a 
supreme  melancholy.  "  Half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread, 
I  suppose.  I  feel  proud  because  of  your  trust — I  feel 
immensely  proud  because  of  it !  " 

"  Now,"  said  she,  looking  at  him  steadily,  while  she 
pointed  toward  a  chair  and  sank,  herself,  into  one  but  a 
yard  or  two  away  from  it,  "  will  you  tell  it  me  all  over  again  ? 
I  heard  it  all  from  your  friend  ;  he  kept  his  word.  But  I 
want  to  hear  it  all  from  you.  Will  you  grant  my  wish  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  he  answered. 

He  took  the  chair  that  she  had  indicated,  and  for  quite 
a  long  time  his  low  tones  made  one  continuous  murmur 
amid  the  soundless  room.  He  narrated  everything,  from 
the  moment  of  his  meeting  with  Voght  until  the  death  of 
the  latter  under  conditions  that  were  so  hideously  unfore- 
seen. After  he  had  ended,  Angela  sat  silent,  with  a  brood- 
ing look  on  her  face,  for  what  was  perhaps  not  half  so  long 


1/2  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

a  time  as  it  seemed  to  her  companion.  And  then,  slowly, 
with  the  stress  of  a  deep  significance,  she  said  : 

"  I  understand  just  why  he  spoke  as  he  did.  Ah,  I  know 
him  so  well  by  this  time  !— rl  have  such  excellent  cause  !  " 

"  You  think,  then,  that  he  was  not  convinced  I  had  inten- 
tionally shot  him  ?  " 

"  Convinced  !  No.  He  realized  that  he  was  dying,  but 
he  also  realized  that  he  could  revenge  himself  on  you — that 
there  was  time  left  to  do  it  in.  And  he  did  it !  " 

"  He  hated  me  like  that !  "  exclaimed  Hubert,  with  a 
shudder. 

"  He  hated  you  very  much ;  you  had  cut  into  his  pride  as 
possibly  no  one  ever  dreamed — except  myself  alone — when 
you  struck  him  there  at  Long  Branch.  And  then  there  was 
the  other  reason  .  .  ." 

"  The  other  reason  ?  " 

"  Yes;  you  surely  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Ah  .  .  you  mean  that  he  was  afraid  you  still  cared  for 
me  ? " 

"Well  .  .  yes." 

Hubert  spoke  with  great  softness  here.  "  And  it  was 
true,  was  it  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  "  why  refer  to  that  now  ?  It  is  no  time — 
no  place." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  broke  forth,  "  I  dare  say  you 
intend  that  only  as  a  prelude  to  something  with  a  far  colder 
chill  in  it !  One  day  you  will  say  to  me  :  'It  will  never  be 
the  time — it  will  never  be  the  place.'  Ah,"  he  went  on 
passionately,  "  how  can  we  mortals  ever  be  such  fools  as  to 
maintain  that  we're  not  the  merest  whims  and  freaks  of  a 
mindless  and  sightless  chance  ?  Our  best  happiness  is  a 
blind  accident,  like  our  worst  misery  !  Here  are  you  ..." 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  spread  out  both  arms  with  a  ges- 
ture of  fiercely  rebellious  pain  ..."  Oh,  my  God,  Angela, 
here  are  you,  freed  again — with  the  bars  that  caged  you  from 
me  broken  by  death — and  yet  this  liberty  of  yours  that  I've 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  173 

caught  myself  longing  for  so  often,  brings  to  me,  at  the  very 
hour  you  win  it,  a  captivity  bitter  and  horrible  !  " 

"  Captivity  ! "  she  repeated  ;  and  here  she  also  rose,  and 
went  toward  him.  "  How  '  a  captivity  '  ?  Are  you  thinking 
of  .  .  of  what  may  happen  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  am  thinking  of  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

"  Then  .  .  then  you  are  not  anxious  about  the  .  .  the 
immediate  future  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

"  Anxious  ?  .  .  I  should  not  be  much  surprised  if  they 
said  I'd  murdered  Bleakly  Voght.  Perhaps,  though,  the 
charge  may  not  be  proved  as  the  law  wants  charges  of  that 
sort  to  be  proved  .  .  ." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  as  he  paused,  and  drew  a 
little  nearer  to  him.  "  Oh,  pray  Heaven  it  is  not !  "  she 
exclaimed. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  proceeded,  "  they  will  even  quite  acquit 
me — after  a  time  .  .  ." 

"Yes — yes,"  she  said,  with  eager  impetuosity.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  have  that  idea  !  Mr.  O'Hara  has  it,  too — or  some- 
thing like  it.  They  won't  take  such  evidence  as  .  .  as 
those  few  words  from  a  half-unconscious  man — will  they  ? 
No,  I'm  sure,  myself,  that  they  will  not !  But  it's  so  hard  to 
make  predictions  thus  early  ;  isn't  it  ?  " 

Her  speech  was  tumultuously  emotional  ;  her  bosom 
seemed  to  show  him  the  pulsations  of  the  heart  beneath  it. 
The  poet  in  him  gave  adoration  to  her  beauty,  seen  in  this 
unwontedly  tragic  light ;  the  lover  in  him  longed  for  some 
admission  more  direct  and  real  than  any  which  had  thus  far 
fallen  from  her.  It  had  grown  certain  to  him,  now,  that  the 
unimagined  potency  of  recent  events  had  exerted  over  her  a 
great  weakening  force ;  and  this,  he  perceived,  might  effect, 
at  his  bidding,  a  self-humiliation  of  surrender,  a  nakedness 
of  impulsive  candor,  such  as  all  that  he  had  formerly  loved 
in  her  for  being  a  symbol  of  the  most  modest  and  gracious 
womanliness  would  hereafter  keenly  repent. 


1/4  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Hubert  proved  himself,  then,  notwithstanding  his  agita- 
tion, his  revolt  against  the  despotism  of  fate,  his  wretched 
bewilderment  at  the  new  and  strange  ill  amid  which  his  life 
had  suddenly  swept,  a  man  nerved  and  braced  by  such 
innate  nobility  as  only  natures  of  true  intrinsic  honor  may 
claim. 

He  caught  her  joined  hands  in  his  own  and  held  them 
thus  for  a  brief  little  interval.  "  Angela,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
been  foolish  to  speak  as  I  did.  We  are  all  the  slaves  of 
destiny,  and  yet  .  .  and  yet  it  is  always  more  or  less  clear 
to  us  that  if  we  can't  radically  alter  we  can  at  least  partially 
shape  this  destiny,  by  will,  by  courage,  by  self-control  !  Let 
us  be  brave,  you  and  I  !  Oh,  my  love,  my  lost  love,  let  us 
be  brave  ! "  He  dropped  her  hands  and  receded  from  her, 
while  she  stood  before  him  and  felt  their  pressure  yet  glow- 
ing on  her  flesh  almost  as  if  some  fiery  contact  had  left 
it  there.  "  Remember,"  he  hurried  on,  "  that  his  corpse  lies 
in  this  very  house  now !  Remember  that  I  killed  him  !  yes, 
I  killed  him,  as  we  must  both  concede,  no  matter  what  tor- 
ture it  deals  us  both  !  Remember — " 

But  she  broke  in,  there.  "  I  remember  everything  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  And  I  remember  how  you  must  suffer — how 
much  more  than  I,  greatly  as  I  do  suffer!  Ah,  you  say 
truly  that  we  are  destiny's  slaves  !  "  She  came  toward  him 
again,  and  her  eyes  swam  before  his  perturbed  gaze  like  two 
beautiful  oscillant  stars.  "  Oh,  Hubert,  I  don't  believe  I 
am  doing  the  least  wrong  thing  in  telling  you  how  I  pity 
you — how  I'd  meet  tortures  to  help  you !  While  he  lived  I 
never  swerved  from  my  duty  to  that  man.  He's  dead,  you 
say  ?  Why,  so  must  we  die  ;  but  when  we  do,  let  us  hope 
we  will  not  die  with  any  such  blasphemous  falsehood  on  our 
lips  as  the  one  he  spoke  against  you  this  day !  " 

"  Angela  ! "  he  protested  .  .  .  and  then  there  sounded  a 
knock,  clear  and  unmistakable,  at  the  door  which  led  from 
the  library  into  the  outer  hall. 

Hubert  went  to  this  door  and  opened  it.     He  expected  to 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


175 


find  that  one  or  two  of  those  who  had  gone  for  the  coroner 
had  returned  to  tell  him  of  that  official's  arrival.  But,  in- 
stead, Bradbourne,  the  valet  of  Voght,  alone  presented  him- 
self; and  Hubert  knew  that  this  man  had  remained  in  the 
house,  to  all  appearances  as  a  sort  of  guard  left  by  the 
others  upon  his  own  future  actions. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  inquired,  as  Bradbourne  entered  the  library. 
"  Are  they  back  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  the  man  replied.  He  was  stroking  his  short- 
cropped  auburn  beard  in  a  nervous,  perplexed  way.  He 
started  when  he  saw  Angela,  who  had  withdrawn  a  little  into 
the  shadow  as  he  advanced.  "  I — I  didn't  know  Mrs.  Voght 
was  here,  sir,"  he  proceeded.  "  If  you  say  so,  I'll  .  .  I'll 
not  disturb  you,  sir."  And  he  backed  slightly  toward  the 
threshold  that  he  had  just  crossed,  with  an  awkwardness 
quite  unlike  his  usual  quiet  security  of  movement. 

Angela  at  once  spoke.  She  had  felt  an  antipathy  toward 
this  man  ever  since  the  hour  on  which  he  had  apparently 
gone  out  of  his  way  to  acquaint  her  husband  with  the  meet- 
ing between  herself  and  Hubert.  From  that  time  she  had 
always  been  suspicious  that  some  duplicity  underlay  his 
capable,  methodical  conduct,  and  she  was  by  no  means  cer- 
tain that  an  acrid  enmity  against  herself  did  not  lurk  at  its 
root. 

"  What  have  you  to  say,  Bradbourne  ? "  she  inquired,  a 
little  imperatively.  "Whatever  it  is,  I  do  not  think  Mr. 
Throckmorton  will  object  to  my  hearing  it  also."  It  seemed 
to  her,  while  she  spoke,  as  if  the  man  had  been  listening 
outside  before  he  knocked;  she  disliked  him  so  that  she 
could  believe  almost  any  bad  thing  about  him.  At  the  same 
time  her  sense  of  justice  told  her  that  this  was  a  most  unfair 
posture,  since  what  had  seemed  in  him  so  artful  a  piece  of 
malice  might  have  sprung  from  entire  innocence. 

He  now  looked  full  at  her  with  his  reddish-tinted  eyes,  and 
she  promptly  saw  in  them  a  new  expYession  of  grievous  worri- 
ment.  It  occurred  to  her,  indeed,  that  she  had  not  thought 


1/6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

his  collected,  sedate  countenance  could  ever  concern  itself 
with  so  much  evidently  poignant  feeling. 

"The— the  truth  is,  ma'am,"  he  began,  stammering  at  first 
but  soon  gaining  much  of  his  usual  composure,  "  I  came  to 
ask  Mr.  Throckmorton  a  question  or  two  about  the  inquest- 
I  mean  "  (and  here  he  addressed  himself  wholly  to  Hubert) 
•'  with  regard  to  the  testimony,  sir." 

"  The  testimony  ?  "  queried  Hubert.  "  Whose  testimony  ? 
Yours  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

There  was  a  silence.  Angela's  look  was  fixed  steadily  on 
the  new-comer's  face.  It  struck  her,  once  or  twice,  that  he 
was  disagreeably  aware  of  this  fact.  He  had  begun  to  feel 
at  his  beard  again,  and  the  hand  with  which  he  did  so  (un- 
less Angela's  covert  though  rather  keen  scrutiny  deceived 
her)  was  a  trifle  tremulous. 

"  What  questions  have  you  to  ask  me  in  the  matter  of 
your  own  forthcoming  testimony  ? "  Hubert  now  made 
inquiry. 

Bradbourne  gave  a  swift,  uneasy  glance  in  the  direction 
of  Angela.  Then  he  took  several  steps  toward  Hubert,  who 
stood  much  nearer  to  him  than  did  his  mistress.  And  here, 
abruptly,  he  showed  a  perturbation  that  was  in  sharp  con- 
trast with  his  former  restraint. 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  anybody  except  you  and  me  know, 
sir,  that  I — I  came  along  quite  so  soon  as  I  did.  Whatever 
words  passed  between  you  and  Mr.  Voght,  sir,  before  .  . 
before  it  happened,  I  might  just  as  well  not  have  heard.  You 
understand,  sir  ?  You  do  understand — I'm  sure  you  do.  / 
needn't  have  heard  anything  at  all — if  you'll  only  make  it 
seem  that  way  in  your  evidence  ! "  He  went  still  nearer  to 
Hubert,  and  his  tones  took  a  touch  of  entreaty.  "  Say  we 
fix  it  like  this,  sir,"  .he  eagerly  continued  :  "  I  didn't  strike 
through  the  wood  and  find  you  till  you'd  bound  Mr.  Voght's 
head  up  ;  you  bound  it  up  yourself,  sir  .  .  don't  you  see  ?  .  . 
it  was  all  your  doing.  I  only  got  there  a  second  or  so  before 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  177 

the  .  .  the  other  witnesses.  Is  it  clear  what  I  mean,  sir  ?  .  . 
is  it  clear  ?  " 

He  was  undoubtedly  very  much  in  earnest,  now.  The 
sweat-drops  glistened  on  his  forehead,  and  he  had  become 
so  pale  that  Angela  grew  amazed  at  the  change  this  pallor 
wrought  in  him. 

"  It  is  clear,"  said  Hubert,  "  that  you  wish  me  to  sup- 
press some  of  the  truth  at  the  coming  inquest,  and  that  you 
will  abet  me  if  I  do  so.  I  take  for  granted  that  you  can 
have  only  one  motive  for  this  proposition — a  desire  to  be  of 
service  to  me.  I  cannot,  indeed,  conceive  of  your  having 
any  other." 

Bradbourne  nodded  several  times  in  swift  succession. 
"  Yes,"  he  acceded,  "  that  and  no  other.  My  motive,  sir,  is 
only  to  make  things  .  .  .  a  .  .  well,  easier  for  you ,  sir" 

It  had  meanwhile  sped  through  Angela's  mind  that  Brad- 
bourne  had  seemingly  taken  her  own  sympathy  toward 
Hubert  quite  for  granted.  This  tended  to  confirm  her 
theory  that  he  had  perhaps  listened  at  the  door,  and  it  also 
augmented  the  general  aversion  she  felt  for  him.  In  the 
matter  of  blaming  this  man  for  having  assumed  that  she 
had  given  credence  to  Hubert's  version  of  the  shooting, 
Angela  judged  with  an  absurd  lack  of  self-perception  ; 
since  to  any  servant  of  medium  intelligence,  living  as  long 
in  the  Voght  household  as  this  one  had  done,  it  must  weeks 
ago  have  become  plain  that  tolerance  was  the  warmest  kind 
of  wifely  sentiment  existing  there. 

"  Easier  for  me  ? "  Hubert  said,  almost  repeating  Brad- 
bourne's  own  words  to  him.  "  It  is  only  because  of  making 
things  easier  for  me,  then,  that  you  are  willing  to  commit 
perjury  ?  " 

"  How,  sir  ? "  shot  the  man,  drawing  himself  up  with  a 
sudden  scowl. 

"  It  would  be  perjury  and  nothing  else,  my  good  fellow," 
said  Hubert,  with  a  sweet,  frank  smile.  "  Remember,  you 
will  be  on  your  oath.  It  isn't  my  safety  you  must  regard  ; 


1/8  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

it's  the  safety  of  your  own  word."  And  then  Hubert,  with 
his  manly,  winning  air,  stretched  out  a  hand  to  Bradbourne. 
"  I  thank  you,"  he  began — 

"  Don't  !  "  exclaimed  Angela,  taking  several  steps  for- 
ward. Both  men  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Hubert  dropped 
his  hand  before  the  other  could  grasp  it.  She  fixed  her 
eyes  on  Bradbourne's  face,  and  with  by  no  means  an  amia- 
ble light  in  them,  as  she  proceeded  : 

"  Why  should  you  wish  to  shield  this  gentleman  ?" 

"  Why  ?  "  repeated  the  man,  with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head 
that  had  bravado  in  it.  "  If  I  tell  what  I  heard  there  be- 
hind the  branches  it  might  go  very  hard  with  this  gentle- 
man. That's  why,  ma'am." 

"  What  were  you  doing  behind  those  branches  ?  "  asked 
Angela,  with  austerity.  "  You  must  have  been  eavesdrop- 
ping, I  should  say,  to  have  heard  so  much." 

Bradbourne's  face  darkened  again.  "  I'd  sat  down  for  a 
few  minutes  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,"  he  said,  "  to  eat  my 
lunch.  Mr.  Voght  had  given  me  three  or  four  sandwiches 
after  I'd  laid  out  his  lunch." 

"  Then  you  must  have  heard  our  entire  conversation  to- 
gether ?  "  Hubert  said,  half  questioningly. 

"  I  did,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Very  well,"  Hubert  pursued,  and  he  now  let  his  hand 
rest  for  an  instant  on  the  shoulder  of  Bradbourne  ;  "  say  your 
say,  my  man,  and  don't  have  the  least  fear  on  my  account." 
He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  after  that,  and  when  he 
again  spoke  his  voice  vibrated  with  a  new  depth  of  feeling, 
though  its  gentle  gravity  remained  the  same.  "  I  think  I 
would  rather  go  to  the  scaffold  because  of  true  evidence 
than  be  saved  from  it  because  of  false." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Angela,  with  a  heart-pang  in  her  tones.  "  If 
you  are  innocent,  as  you  most  certainly  are,  you  should  re- 
joice all  the  more  in  being  saved,  by  whatever  means  !  " 

"  If  I  am  innocent,  as  I  most  certainly  am,"  he  responded, 
with  a  tranquil  solemnity  that  thrilled  at  least  one  of  his 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  179 

listeners,  "  then  let  the  law  look  to  it  that  my  innocence  is 
not  degraded  into  guilt." 

Perhaps  Bradbourne  would  have  spoken  further  (he  still 
appeared  fluttered,  irresolute,  worried)  had  not  an  interrup- 
tion now  occurred  which  was  rather  grimly  irrepealable. 

The  coroner  had  been  secured,  and  had  come  with  several 
wagon-loads  of  curious,  wide-eyed,  excited  village-folk.  All 
Ponchatuk  was  by  this  time  aflame  with  the  disaster.  It  was 
a  fearful  ordeal  for  Hubert.  O'Hara  stood  near  him,  and 
once  or  twice  helped  to  nerve  him  with  a  few  whispered 
sentences  when  self-continence  was  on  the  verge  of  being 
replaced  by  desperate  personal  revolt. 

Bradbourne  gave  his  evidence  in  a  way  that  struck  Hubert 
as  having  been  forced  from  him  against  his  will.  It  was 
damning  in  its  character ;  having  been  an  auditor  of  the 
quarrel  in  the  glade  between  his  master  and  Hubert,  the 
man  repeated  every  fierce  verbal  detail  of  this  quarrel  with  a 
fidelity  that  rarely  erred  from  the  minutest  point  of  accuracy. 

*  Poor  Angela  ! '  Hubert  said  to  himself  more  than  once 
during  the  loathed  progress  of  the  inquest.  'What  publicity 
this  will  pour  upon  her  !  Thank  Heaven  she  is  not  required 
to  be  present  now.  But  if  there  is  a  trial  (and  it  looks  as  if 
there  must  be  one)  can  they  ,not  force  her  to  appear  ?  " 

The  evidence  of  the  coachman,  Hugh  Magee,  and  of  the 
two  workmen  who  had  gone  with  him  to  the  glade  after 
hearing  the  shot  and  Voght's  wild  subsequent  cry,  contained 
a  single  dread  factor  of  accusation.  All  three  had  gathered 
from  the  dying  man's  gasped-forth  charge  one  same  fatally 
compromising  import. 

As  for  Hubert,  he  attempted  no  defence.  He  narrated 
all  that  had  happened  without  a  shadow  of  reservation  or 
prevarication.  Lying  had  always  been  a  lost  art  with  him. 
It  was  now  his  dreary  and  agonizing  pride  to  tell  the  truth, 
and  he  told  it  with  a  candor  whose  merciless  rigor  pierced 
O'Hara  by  admiration  and  pity  in  equal  degrees.  O'Hara 


I  SO  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

himself  could  do  nothing  but  testify  as  the  other  five  wit- 
nesses had  done. 

The  verdict  of  the  coroner's  jury  came  rapid  and  unspar- 
ing. It  declared  that  Bleakly  Voght  had  met  his  death 
through  wilful  murder  at  the  hands  of  Hubert  Throckmor- 
ton. 

The  idea  of  bail,  to  any  amount,  was  peremptorily  refused. 

The  county  jail  was  at  L ,  an  ugly,  lifeless  town  abouf 

twenty  miles  distant.  Hubert  went  there  that  evening  by 
rail,  under  close  custody,  O'Hara  faithfully  accompanying 
him.  The  prisoner  did  not  see  Angela  before  he  left  Pine- 
land.  O'Hara  might  have  arranged  a  brief  meeting,  and 
indeed  somewhat  pressingly  volunteered  to  do  so.  But 
Hubert  refused.  H,e  slept  at7^ that  night,  in  a  com- 
mon cell  of  the  prison.  Or,  rather,  he  did  not  sleep,  but 
lay  awake  brooding  over  the  dire  catastrophe  that  had  be- 
fallen him,  and  now  and  then  telling  himself,  with  a  half- 
miserable  sort  of  comfort,  that  Angela  was  perhaps  as  wake- 
ful and  as  woful  as  he. 


XIII. 

THOSE  days  in  L prison,  before  the  trial  took  place, 

were  fraught  for  him  with  a  momentously  novel  experience. 
The  New  York  newspapers  might  almost  be  said  to  have 
rioted  in  the  cause  cttcbre  which  they  were  now  called  upon 
to  exploit  and  commemorate.  The  Long  Branch  episode  had 
been  the  merest  triile  of  incident  by  comparison.  Hubert's 
past  was  remorselessly  raked  up  ;  lines  of  his  poetry  were 
quoted  by  the  column  ;  Angela's  engagement  to  him  was 
narrated  in  a  hundred  different  versions,  and  her  marriage 
with  Bleakly  Voght  was  made  to-day  the  impulse  of  a  co- 
quettish pique,  to-morrow  the  mercenary  manoeuvre  of  a 
hard-souled  worldling. 

After  a  while  Hubert  ceased  to  read  the  papers  at  all, 
and  refused  to  have  them  brought  him.  Except  for  O'Hara 
he  passed  most  of  his  days  in  solitude.  That  is,  he  preferred 
such  a  life  when  he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  that  O'Hara 
had  turned  out  to  be  the  only  real  friend  he  had  ever  pos- 
sessed. 

Hours  of  the  most  keenly  despondent  thought  had  op- 
pressed him  while  reflecting  upon  the  conduct  of  persons 
whom  he  .had  once  believed  to  be  his  friends.  Without  a 
single  exception,  everybody  who  sought  him  was  the  bearer 
of  disappointment.  Some  who  professed  to  hold  him  guilt- 
less did  SXD  with  the  shabbiest  parodies  upon  loyalty.  Not  a 
few  of  those  in  whose  adherence  he  had  instinctively  trusted, 
never  came  near  him  at  all.  The  quality  of  the  evidence  at 
the  inquest,  and  that  of  the  journalistic  disclosures  concern-' 
ing  his  former  relations  with  Voght,  had  cast  over  his  entire 
acquaintanceship  a  spell  of  the  most  lukewarm  tendency. 
181 


1 82  DIVTDED  LIVES. 

His  own  kindred  were  of  all  the  least  encouraging,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  behind  their  assertions  of  fidelity  he  read 
nothing  except  a  timorous  forecast  of  his  possible  criminal 
fate.  O'Hara  would  sometimes  bring  him  news  of  Angela, 
who  was  dwelling  in  New  York  amid  the  utmost  privacy, 
not  so  much  crushed  by  the  scandale publiquc  of  the  ruffianly 
press  as  by  dread  of  what  the  coming  trial  might  accomplish. 
Hubert  would  not  bid  her  to  write  him,  though  he  yearned 
for  her  letters.  There  were  times  when  he  yearned  to  write 
her  voluminous  letters,  breathing  of  his  anguish  and  loneli- 
ness. But  he  refrained  from  doing  so.  '  Whatever  happens 
now,'  he  desolately  told  his  own  heart,  '  she  and  I  can  never 
become  one.  The  world  would  say  that  she  had  married 
her  husband's  murderer.  It  would  follow  us  wherever  we 
went,  /should  not  care  a  straw  except  on  her  account ;  that 
would  make  me  care  intensely — so  much,  indeed,  that  though 
she  begged  and  pleaded  of  me  to  marry  her  I  would  never 
consent ! ' 

Thoughts  no  more  cheerful  than  these  were  forever  taunt- 
ing and  harassing  Hubert  here  in  his  onerous  solitude.  It 
is  wonderful  that  his  health  did  not  break  down ;  perhaps  if 
he  had  eaten  the  unwholesome  prison-fare  and  not  had  meals 
that  were  specially  cooked  for  him,  it  would  indeed  have 
succumbed.  His  fellow-prisoners  were  a  vicious  and  often 
filthy  class  of  beings — more  odious  in  certain  ways  than  even 
those  who  fill  the  larger  metropolitan  jails.  And  yet 
Hubert  sometimes  felt  that  their  contact  was  a  moral  tonic 
to  him.  The  horrors  of  social  inequality  were  brought 
closer  to  his  vision  than  ever  before.  He  realized,  as  he 
had  never  done  till  now,  what  pitiless  tyranny  of  antenatal 
preference  had  made  one  man  the  child  of  an  unlettered  or 
perhaps  drunken  clod,  and  the  other  to  be  born  with  every 
monetary  and  educational  aid  forcefully  on  the  alert.  He 
•  heard  the  histories  that  some  of  these  half-imbruted  creatures 
had  to  recount,  and  he  perceived  with  a  startling  clearness 
how  great  is  that  fallacy  which  claims  opportunity  in  life  to 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  183 

be  the  handmaid  of  ability  ;  for  not  seldom  during  these 
gloomy  and  growled-forth  recitals  he  had  traced  from  its 
juvenile  beginning  a  will  to  rise  in  the  world  and  prosper, 
coupled  with  a  dearth  of  every  helpful  agency.  Lastly,  too, 
he  found  his  sympathies  broadening  and  deepening  toward 
temptation,  so  often  an  energy  that  simply  seizes  the  individ- 
ual as  a  tiger  might  seize  an  antelope  in  its  teeth  and  bears 
him  to  a  spiritual  death  if  not  a  bodily  one ! 

Hubert's  wealth  made  it  easy  for  him  to  secure  the  most 
skilled  lawyers  in  the  country.  These  soon  gave  him  as 
their  opinion  that  conviction  would  hardly  be  possible  in  his 
case.  It  might  come,  but  as  all  the  evidence  was  now 
rather  plainly  en  vue  beforehand,  its  coming  did  not  seem 
by  any  means  probable.  After  a  few  days  of  intercourse 
Hubert  thoroughly  confirmed  his  lawyers  in  the  belief  that 
he  was  innocent.  He  made  no  effort  to  bring  about  this 
result;  the  quiet  naturalness  of  his  story,  the  subtle  and  del- 
icate fragrance  of  honor,  refinement,  cultivation,  good  taste, 
which  his  personality  unconsciously  diffused,  wrought  their 
due  and  potent  effect.  The  men  who  had  at  first  let  Hubert's 
dollars  tempt  them  into  trying  if  they  could  not  make  the 
black  of  guilt  look  for  a  certain  time  to  twelve  fellow-mortals 
as  though  it  were  a  sinless  white,  presently  found  that  no 
such  tricksy  species  of  legerdemain  was  needed.  Hubert 
had  shot  Bleakly  Voght  by  a  lamentable  accident,  and  noth- 
ing else.  They  were  prepared  to  defend  the  prisoner  against 
what  they  now  felt  confident  was  a  hideously  false  charge 
made  in  a  spirit  of  moribund  malice.  Like  the  majority  of 
those  lawyers  with  whom  the  dealing  in  truth  is  a  question 
not  wholly  dominated  by  the  size  of  the  fee,  they  exulted  at 
the  idea  of  having  secured  a  case  in  which  they  must  not 
only  do  some  pretty  hard  fighting,  but  do  it  as  the  most  stanch 
believers  that  they  were  fighting  for  a  really  noble  cause. 
For  even  a  high-priced  lawyer  can  appreciate  the  nobility  of 
a  cause.  As  he  might  betray  to  you,  if  you  caught  him  in 
some  confessionally  mellow  moment,  across  the  walnuts  and 


184  Di  TIDED  LITJ'.S. 

the  wine,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  clients  you  shrink  from  tak- 
ing, but  one  of  clients  you  can't  afford  to  shrink  from  tak- 
ing. 

O'Hara  was  from  the  first  their  devout  ally,  and  may 
almost  be  said  to  have  acted,  on  more  than  a  single  occasion, 
literally  as  the  proxy  of  Hubert.  Terms  of  comparative 
intimacy  had  been  established  between  himself  and  Angela. 
Every  possible  turn  of  developments  at  the  coming  trial 
they  discussed  together  again  and  again.  One  evening  in 
early  December,  while  he  and  she  were  holding  an  interview 
amid  the  tasteful  tapestries  and  bright  embellishments  of 
Angela's  New  York  drawing-room,  the  latter  most  meaningly 
and  deliberately  said : 

"  There  is  one  portion  of  the  case,  is  there  not,  Mr. 
O'Hara,  which  the  lawyers  feel  somewhat  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  O'Hara. 

"  And  that  is,"  continued  Angela,  "  the  portion  where  five 
men  will  all  testify  to  my  husband's  .  .  having  .  .  ac- 
cused ..."  Her  voice  loitered  and  sank.  He  pres- 
ently broke  in,  with  a  brisk,  relieving  manner. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  again.  "  That  is  the  portion.  Or  rather 
half  of  it." 

"  How  ? "  she  queried  repeated.     "  Is  there  more,  then  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  quarrel.  I  mean,  you  know,  what  Brad- 
bourne  overhead.  His  evidence  will  be  most  compromising. 
It  will  have  the  effect  of  verifying  those  last  words  of  Mr. 
Voght's.  You  comprehend  this,  of  course  ?  " 

Angela  stared  down  at  her  own  black  robes  for  a  moment 
— the  habiliment  that  seemed  to  her  so  exquisite  a  mockery, 
and  yet,  in  another  sense,  was  so  well  adapted  to  her 
present  despondency. 

"  Yes,  I  do  comprehend  perfectly,"  she  said.  "  How  I 
wish,"  she  added,  "  that  he  had  only  suppressed  his  evidence 
at  the  inquest,  as  he  proposed,  offered,  almost  begged  to 
do!" 

"I  remember,"  said    O'Hara,  stroking  his    chin    rumina- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  185 

lively.  "  You  told  me  something  of  that  before.  The  man's 
behavior  at  the  inquest  was  odd.  He  seemed  so  agitated, 
once  or  twice,  that  I  really  thought  he  was  going  to  faint." 

But  on  the  following  day  intelligence  of  a  still  more 
"  odd  "  character  reached  O'Hara  regarding  this  same  man, 

Bradbourne.  The  Irishman  went  down  to  L and  passed 

a  night  there,  as  he  had  so  often  done  since  Hubert's  misfort- 
une. The  more  he  contemplated  the  bitterness  of  tragedy 
in  which  that  high-strung,  honorable,  almost  totally  unself- 
ish life  had  been  steeped,  the  more  he  felt  real  thrills  of 
indignation  against  what  one  might  term  the  brutality  of 
circumstance.  A  futile  enough  wrath  to  waste  thought  and 
time  upon,  it  must  be  owned  ;  and  yet  this  very  revolt  has 
now  and  then  proved  the  threshold  of  a  subsequent  philoso- 
phy from  which  foolhardy  anger  against  the  unavoidable 
has  been  as  absent  as  foolhardy  faith  in  the  insoluble. 
Some  of  the  hours  which  he  had  spent  with  Hubert  in  his 
prison-cell  had  made  the  profoundest  of  impressions  upon 
O'Hara.  If  he  had  not  known  how  forcibly  his  friend 
suffered,  Hubert's  excessive  patience  might  have  wakened 
an  opposite  belief  hi  him.  This  very  agnosticism  which  had 
long  ago  seemed  to  threaten  the  fine  ideals  of  O'Hara 
(though  for  any  injury  of  those  ideals  he  had  solely  his  own 
perversity  to  blame)  was  apparently  doing,  in  the  case  of 
Hubert,  all  that  religion  had  ever  achieved  with  martyrs  of 
past  periods.  Hubert  was  a  martyr  of  fate ;  and  yet  the 
stoicism  with  which  he  met  his  unmerited  scourges  drew  its 
quiet  strength  from  no  surety  wrought  by  the  airy  axioms  of 
pulpiteers.  A  stern  hostility  of  events  encompassed  him  ; 
his  hope  against  their  worst  assault  was  centred  in  his  trust 
of  that  equity  which  long  sweeps  of  evolution  had  bred 
among  his  fellow-men.  Over  all  spread  the  Unknowable  ; 
here  might  lurk  providential  mercy ;  on  this  point  he  neither 
denied  nor  affirmed  ;  he  simply  granted  that  some  sort  of  aid 
might  be  working  in  his  behalf. 

And  yet  he   was   so   calm,   so   uncomplaining  !     O'Hura 


1 86  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

envied  him  his  brave,  cool  resignation.  He  had  once 
believed  that  no  such  serenity  could  result  from  the  non- 
religious  point  of  view.  Hubert's  repose  was  a  revelation  to 
him.  Whence  had  he  derived  it,  since  the  accepted  codes 
of  orthodoxy  were  all  one  valueless  fable  to  him  ?  ...  By 
degrees  O'Hara,  through  the  very  admiration  which  he  had 
always  felt  for  what  was  clean  and  high  and  secure  in  his 
contemporary,  began  to  accede  that  a  lofty  moral  condition 
may  base  itself  neither  upon  expectation  of  reward  after 
death  nor  a  dread  of  posthumous  punishment.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  recognized  not  alone  how  essentially 
Christian  an  agnostic  may  be,  but  how  wisely  consistent  with 
that  so-called  audacity  of  his  rationalism. 

"  If  Bleakly  Voght  really  meant  to  bring  me  to  the  scaffold 
by  that  dying  accusation  of  his,"  Hubert  had  once  said,  "  I 
forgive  him  for  the  baneful  impulse  no  less  easily  than  I 
would  forgive  a  wild  beast  for  having  sought  to  maim  me. 
His  attempt  was  evil ;  so  was  my  resentful  speech  to  him. 
Both  are  explainable  through  mentally  material  reasons.  I 
believe  that  all  harm  inflicted  by  man  against  his  neighbor  is 
the  product  of  insanity.  Diogenes  might  better  have  said 
that  he  sought  a  sane  man  than  merely  one  worthy  of  the 
generic  name.  Some  day,  I  also  believe,  there  will  be  no 
wrong  in  the  world,  and  hence  no  rage  that  shall  seek  to 
repress  or  avenge  it.  How  shall  we  probe  the  mind  or  the 
soul  ?  Who  has  yet  either  explained  to  us  the  wherefore  of 
the  human  devil  or  the  human  saint  ?  Science  may  do  so, 
some  day ;  when  it  does  we  shall  have  the  same  trustworthy 
amulet  against  spiritual  evil  that  vaccination  has  given  us 
against  physical  evil.  We  are,  all  of  us,  the  heirs  of  innu- 
merable ancestors.  I  dare  not  allow  that  I  ever  lift  my 
hand  without  allowing  that  there  has  been  hereditary,  an- 
cestral cause  for  even  so  simple  an  act  millions  of  years  ago. 
Forgive  one  another  ?  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  only  when  we 
fail  to  forgive  ourselves  that  we  cannot  find  it  possible  to 
forgive  our  fellows."  .  .  . 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  1 87 

Many  words  like  these  fell  from  Hubert's  lips,  while  he 
was  girt  by  the  shadow  and  duress  of  his  unmerited  calam- 
ity. O'Hara,  who  had  almost  reverenced  him  for  being 
exceptionally  upright  and  admirable  amid  the  levities  of 
ordinary  living,  now  felt  within  his  soul  a  respectful  hom- 
age larger  and  richer  than  he  had  dreamed  of  even  furtively 
paying  before.  But  on  this  especial  occasion  of  meeting, 
neither  the  philosopher  nor  the  poet  in  Hubert  had  much  to 
communicate.  During  the  previous  day  he  had  received  a 
visit  from  Bradbourne,  and  it  had  both  dismayed  and  per- 
plexed him. 

"  The  man  was  admitted  into  my  cell,"  he  told  O'Hara, 
"  and  the  instant  that  I  looked  at  him  I  saw  a  great  change 
in  his  appearance." 

"  He  seemed  ill  ? "  asked  O'Hara. 

"He  must  have  lost  at  least  thirty  pounds.  He  was 
never  a  particularly  robust  fellow,  you  recall  ?  But  now  he 
is  emaciated  almost  to  a  shadow  of  what  he  was." 

"  And  he  said  ?  .  .  .  " 

"  For  some  time  I  could  not  even  make  out  what  he 
desired  to  say.  I  took  for  granted  that  he  had  come  to  me 
with  the  desire  to  say  something  definite,  appreciable.  But 
for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  get  him,  at  first,  to  do  anything 
except  besiege  me  with  a  kind  of  feverish,  wandering  com- 
passion." 

"  Compassion  ?  "  sharply  asked  O'Hara. 

"  Yes.  He  lamented  that  I  was  here.  I  struck  him  as 
so  sadly  unsuited  to  my  surroundings.  It  was  an  outrage. 
My  forthcoming  trial  was  also  an  outrage.  They  ought  to 
have  understood  that  a  high-bred  gentleman  like  me 
couldn't,  no,  couldn't  have  committed  an  actual  murder.  .  . 
And  all  this  was  spoken  so  disjointeclly,  so  erratically, 
so  often  with  the  suggestion  in  it  of  a  dazed  if  not  a 
demented  brain,  that  I  began  to  regret  the  absence  of 
the  turnkey  and  to  cast  my  eyes  about  the  niggard  space  of 
this  abode,  thinking  just  what  stout  thing  I  might  turn  into 


1 88  DIVIDED  LI: 

defensive  account  if  incoherence  should  suddenly  take  the 
form  of  ferocity.  But  my  caution  proved  needless.  After 
a  while  Braclbourne  became  a  good  deal  more  lucid.  He 
still  remained  a  little  wild  and  unsound  in  demeanor,  but  the 
improvement  had  nevertheless  been  marked.  Gradually  I 
began  to  learn  that  he  wanted  my  consent  and  that  of  my 
lawyers  in.  a  successfully  mysterious  escape  from  the  coun- 
try." 

"  Ah!  "  exclaimed  O'Hara,  as  if  he  held  this  news  to  be  of 
piercing  importance.  "And  he  thought  you  might  abet  him, 
so  as  to  avoid  his  testimony  !  How  little  he  knew  you  !  '' 

"  It  was  certainly  a  miscalculation,"  said  Hubert,  in  his 
placid  way.  "But  then  there  was  no  excuse  for  it,  this  time, 
as  he  had  made  a  similar  one  before  the  inquest  at  Pine- 
land." 

"  You  showed  annoyance  ? " 

"  How  could  I  ?  The  man's  whole  appearance  was  so 
pitiable.  With  his  gaunt  figure,  wasted  face,  and  hollow 
whisper,  he  gave  me  an  absurd  idea  of  a  conspirator  in  some 
opera.  After  a  short  time  I  found  myself  forgetting  to  take 
him  seriously.  .  .  Australia  seemed  to  be  the  one  country 
of  refuge  that  he  particularly  craved.  He  knew  it,  having 
lived  there  before — during  nearly  all  his  boyhood  and  a  part 
of  his  early  manhood,  in  fact.  He  spoke  of  you  as  being  my 
chief  possible  aid  in  getting  him  safely  away  before  the  trial. 
The  whole  proceeding,  he  affirmed,  could  be  managed 
between  the  lawyers  and  myself.  He  had  money  enough  to 
defray  all  the  expenses  of  the  trip  ;  he  did  not  ask  me  for  a 
dollar — not  he  !  There  were  two  people  whom  he  would 
like  to  take  with  him  ;  one  was  a  woman,  and  the  other  a 
child.  Would  I  not  think  the  plan  over  ?  Let  me  recollect 
that  what  they  would  compel  him  to  say  at  the  trial  might 
have  a  damaging  effect  upon  me  only  second  to  Bleakly 
Voght's  awful  declaration.  It  was  true — oh,  yes,  he  admitted 
it  was  quite  true — that  he  had  been  forced  to  speak  harm- 
fully about  me  at  the  inquest.  But  if  he  were  not  to  be  found 


DIVIDED  Li, 


89 


when  the  trial  came  off,  all  that  the  prosecution  might  say 
about  him  would  not  influence  a  jury  half  so  much  as  what 
he  might  say  in  his  own  voice.  And  suppose  lots  of  people 
did  claim  that  he  had  been  spirited  off  as  a  dangerous  wit- 
ness against  the  prisoner.  Are  not  people  forever  babbling 
like  this  about  everything  and  everybody?  The  great  point 
always  is  whether  or  not  they  can  prove  their  imputa- 
tions .  .  .  And  so  on,  my  dear  O'Hara,  until  weariness 
grew  no  name  for  his  imploring  monologue." 

"You  finally  silenced  him,  of  course,  by  a  flat  refusal." 

"  I  silenced  him,  at  first,  somewhat  painfully.  After  I 
had  spoken  the  word  '  no  '  for  what  sounded  to  my  own  ears 
about  the  hundredth  time,  he  literally  fell  on  his  knees 
before  me,  with  the  tears  streaming  down  his  face." 

O'Hara  shook  his  head  most  puzzledly,  like  a  man  who 
has  begun  to  ponder  something  with  zeal.  "  Strange,"  he 
murmured  ..."  strange." 

"  But  his  swoon  was  still  stranger,"  Hubert  continued  ; 
"for  in  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself  kneeling  beside  him 
here  on  the  floor  of  my  cell  and  looking  into  a  face  that 
very  closely  resembled  a  dead  man's.  He  had  fainted  com- 
pletely away.  .  By  a  lucky  chance  the  turnkey  appeared  soon 
afterward,  and  together  we  succeeded  in  resuscitating  him. 
As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  walk  I  caused  him  to  be  con- 
ducted from  the  cell.  He  had  me,  with  his  impetuous 
appeals,  at  a  sort  of  physical  disadvantage,  cooped  up  here 
as  I  was.  Besides,  there-  had  already  been  more  than 
enough  for  me  of  these  half-savage  supplications,  to  which 
no  inducement  could  make  me  listen.  'Get  him  away,'  I 
whispered  to  the  turnkey,  '  or  I  shall  be  ill  myself '.  .  . 
There  was  no  clanger  that  he  would  recommence  his  attacks 
before  a  third  person,  though  he  turned  to  me  with  a  look  of 
fervent  pleading  on  his  altered  face  just  as  he  was  being 
pushed  across  my  threshold.  Subsequently  I  learned  that 
he  had  left  the  prison  in  a  tractable  state  of  mind,  though 


190  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

not  until  he  had  begged  without  avail  permission  to  see  me 
privately  once  more." 

O'Hara  acted  for  a  long  time  like  a  man  who  would 
rather  remain  silent  than  speak.  "  This  behavior  on  the 
part  of  such  a  person,"  he  at  length  broke  forth,  "  is 
deucedly  perplexing.  He  cannot  be  acting  solely  through 
motives  of  regard  for  you.  He  had  never  even  ex- 
changed a  word  with  you  until  the  day  of  Voght's  death. 
Merciful  reluctance  to  testify  so  adversely  against  a  fellow- 
being  ?  That  is  at  least  improbable.  His  evidence,  after 
all,  is  but  the  truth,  and  he's  intelligent  enough  to  see 
clearly  that  he  can  only  show  himself  an  honest  man,  in  such 
an  emergency,  by  declaring  just  what  happened.  .  .  No, 
there  is  some  mystery  .  .  some  mystery.  .  .  "  And  O'Hara 
tapped  his  bowed  forehead  as  he  now  scanned  the  floor  of 
Hubert's  cell. 

The  latter  gave  a  little  weary  sigh.  "  Well,  if  there  be  a 
mystery,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  see  how  any  special  benefit  to 
myself  may  result  from  it." 

"  You  can't  see,"  returned  O'Hara,  "  nor  can  I.  But 
that  is  no  reason  why  the  solution  of  the  mystery  may  not 
prove  of  the  utmost  worth  and  weight." 

Hubert  slowly  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  understand  you, 
O'Hara,"  he  murmured. 

O'Hara  gave  a  laugh  that  had  in  it  only  the  vaguest  echo 
of  his  once  gleeful  hilarity.  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand 
myself,"  he  said. 

"It  couldn't  turn  out,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Hubert, 
with  melancholy  sarcasm,  "that  Bradbourne  really  killed 
Bleakly  Voght  instead  of  myself  ?  " 

"  Are  you  serious  ? "  exclaimed  O'Hara,  starting  and 
looking  at  Hubert  with  great  intentness. 

"  Serious  ?  "  echoed  Hubert.  "  Good  heavens,  man,  how 
could  I  be  ?  " 

"  True,"  admitted  O'Hara,  a  little  sadly,  and  as  though  he 
recollected  something.  "  It  couldn't  possibly  be ;  could  it  ? 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  191 

There  was  but  one  shot  fired.  Yes,  if  there  had  been 
another  we  would  have  heard  it — we  people,  I  mean,  outside 
of  the  wood.  Besides,  you  had  been  standing  in  the  presence 
of  Voght  only  a  few  seconds  before.  Oh,  no  ;  there  simply 
could  not  have  been  any  criminal  act  perpetrated  on  the  part 
of  Bradbourne,  against  his  master.  He  ..." 

But  here  Hubert  broke  in,  with  his  manly,  thoughtful, 
collected  tones.  "  You  are  indeed  right,  my  friend,"  he 
said.  "  This  Bradbourne  cannot  be  guilty  of  any  murderous 
act  against  Voght.  To  have  done  that  he  must  have  had  an 
absolutely  noiseless  weapon,  and  have  darted  forth  with  it. 
.  .  .  But  you  see,  we  at  once  get  into  the  realm  of  '  penny 
dreadful '  fiction.  Air-guns,  and  pistols  that  go  off  without 
the  slightest  report,  are  not  much  in  vogue  nowadays,  even 
if  it  were  ever  true  of  them  that  they  made  no  noise  at  all. 
...  I  think  the  explanation  of  this  man's  behavior  may  be 
found  in  a  disordered  state  of  his  nerves  alone.  I  would 
not,  if  I  were  you,  postpone  any  other  work  preparatory  to 
the  trial  for  the  purpose  of  investigating  his  eccentric 
course  more  closely.  Remember,  pray,  there  is  not  much 
time  ahead.  Within  two  weeks  from  to-day,  you  know,  the 
trial  takes  place." 

"  Two  weeks  from  to-day,"  O'Hara  repeated.  The  sen- 
tence held  for  him  a  deadly  chill  in  it,  as  though  he  had  felt 
the  touch  of  an  icy  hand  upon  his  flesh.  Then,  with  rallying 
spirits,  he  added :  "  Well,  be  it  as  you  say  about  Brad- 
bourne,  my  dear  fellow ;  but  I  think  the  lawyers  have  made 
every  needful  preparation,  as  it  is.  And  they're  immensely 
confident  of  success,  too — but  then  no  less  so  than  I  am." 

Hubert  smiled.  "  Success  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  mean, 
by  that,  '  acquittal,'  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  surely,  yes.     What  else  could  '  acquittal  '  mean  ?  " 

Hubert  slowly  shook  his  head  while  his  eyes  fell.  "  It 
might  mean,"  he  said,  "  a  cleansed  name,  and  not  the 
stained  one  that  I  must  bear  through  the  rest  of  my  life, 
even  if  they  leave  me  my  life  after  they  have  done  with  me  !  " 


XIV. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  advice  of  Hubert,  future  reflection 
induced  O'Hara  to  begin  a  series  of  close  investigations 
regarding  Bradbourne's  whereabouts  and  mode  of  living. 
The  young  man,  as  a  noteworthy  witness  in  the  forthcoming 
trial,  was  already  under  vigilant  watch.  O'Hara  had  merely 
to  make  inquiries  with  respect  to  his  address.  He  then  set 
certain  detectives  at  work,  and  in  a  few  days  he  had  learned 
facts  which  filled  him  with  strange  amazement. 

Braclbourne  was  not  Bradbourne  at  all.  His  name  was 
Heath,  and  he  was  living  with  his  sister,  Jane  Heath,  a  fragile, 
faded-looking  girl,  in  a  decent  Second  Avenue  flat  on  the 
outskirts  of  Harlem.  This  name,  "  Heath,"  let  in  a  world 
of  new  light  to  him ;  for  Hubert  had  concealed  no  item  of 
information  concerning  all  that  he  knew  of  Voght's  past 
misdeed.  The  detectives  worked  more  boldly  after  they 
had  gained  an  infallible  clew.  They  discovered  that  this 
Jane  Heath,  although  living  under  what  she  had  given  as  a 
maiden  name,  was  the  mother  of  a  child  who  did  not  at 
present  share  the  home  of  her  brother  and  herself.  And  a 
few  days  later  further  disclosures  were  made.  Disguise  had 
now  been  cast  aside,  and  the  so-called  Bradbourne  was 
threatened  with  immediate  arrest,  provided  he  did  not 
reveal  the  whole  truth  about  himself  and  the  unfortunate 
young  woman  with  whom  he  dwelt. 

"  His  sister  is  the  woman  who  was  the  victim  of  Voght's 
wickedness,"  O'Hara  hurried  one  day  into  Hubert's  cell 
for  the  purpose  of  telling  him.  "  There's  no  doubt  of  it — 
not  a  vestige  !  I  wrote  you  that  his  real  name  had  turned 
out  to  be  not  Braclbourne  but  Heath,  and  now  comes  the 
192 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


193 


news  that  he  is  unquestionably  Jane  Heath's  brother.  The 
story  of  his  Australian  life  is  perfectly  true.  He  was  sepa- 
rated from  his  sister,  Jane,  at  an  early  age.  She  was  left 
here  with  a  relation,  and  he  was  taken  thither  by  the  father 
of  both.  The  elder  Heath  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  win 
rapid  riches  among  the  gold-fields.  He  failed  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  sort,  like  so  many  others  ;  and  when  his  son, 
Julius,  had  reached  the  age  of  about  nine  years,  he  died. 
Julius  had  always  recollected  America,  and  now  longed 
greatly  to  revisit  it  and  to  see  his  sister  once  again.  But 
for  a  long  time  circumstances  forbade  such  a  step.  He 
passed  two  or  three  years  of  the  most  pinching  poverty, 
and  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  a  fairly  lucrative  position 
at  Melbourne.  Meanwhile  he  had  written  the  most  affection- 
ate letters  to  his  sister,  whom  he  idolized,  and  passionately 
desired  to  see  again.  Jane  answered  these  letters  punctu- 
ally and  with  affection  for  a  long  time.  At  length  the  rela- 
tion with  whom  she  had  lived  (an  aunt  somewhat  advanced 
in  years)  rather  suddenly  breathed  her  last.  Jane  wrote 
quite  hopefully  to  her  brother  that  she  would  go  into  service 
at  least  until  the  happy  time  when  he  could  rejoin  her  here 
in  New  York ;  and  then  .  .  .  she  wrote  no  more  during  a 
period  of  about  two  years.  One  day,  however,  Julius  Heath 
received  a  letter  from  her  in  his  Melbourne  home.  It  told 
him  a  story  of  miserable  shame,  and  made  the  blood  in  his 
veins  boil  for  vengeance  upon  Bleakly  Voght.  He  had  by 
this  time  accumulated  a  fairly  large  sum  of  money ;  he  had 
lived  with  the  most  rigid  economy  on  first  securing  the 
situation  which  proved  such  a  godsend,  and  afterward  some 
lucky  turn  of  affairs  had  most  radically  improved  his  pros- 
pects. In  a  little  while  longer  he  had  delighted  to  tell  him- 
self, the  hour  of  his  home-coming  would  arrive.  Then  there 
would  be  a  great  surprise  indeed  for  Jane  !  She  would  par- 
don him  for  having  played  the  miser  thus  long  that  she 
might  rejoice  and  be  comfortable  hereafter.  The  continued 
silence  of  his,  sister  had  been  an  agony  to  Julius,  and 
13 


194  DIVIDED  LIVES, 

her  horrifying  letter  arrived  when  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  setting  sail  for  these  shores.  He  now  swore  a  fiercely 
determined  oath  that  he  would  spend  every  farthing  of  the 
money  he  possessed  in  seeking  to  force  Bleakly  Voght  to 
marry  his  sister.  .  .  But  when  he  at  length  did  reach 
America,  it  was  to  find  Bleakly  Voght  the  husband  of  an- 
other woman.  .  .  And  here  his  story  becomes  most  improba- 
ble," O'Hara  said,  with  that  change  of  manner  which  accom- 
panies the  desertion  of  narration  for  criticism.  "  He  admits 
that  he  entered  the  employment  of  Bleakly  Voght  knowing 
quite  well  who  that  person  was,  and  that  his  entire  method 
of  operation  was  underhand  in  the  extreme.  If  Voght  had 
not  been  oddly  careless  about  recommendations,  I  suppose 
that  Heath  could  never  have  got  himself  engaged  as  Julius 
Bradbourne.  It's  most  probable  that  Voght  was  prepos- 
sessed with  his  nice  manner,  and  omitted,  in  his  own  severe 
illness,  to  verify  whatever  documents  were  presented  to  him." 

"  Strange,"  said  Hubert,  at  this  point,  "  that  Mrs,  Voght 
should  have  made  no  personal  inquiries." 

"  I  saw  her  this  morning,"  O'Hara  proceeded,  "  and  I 
touched  on  that  very  subject.  Mrs.  Voght  says  that 
'  Bradbourne  '  came  at  a  peculiarly  trying  hour.  Her  hus- 
band's last  valet  had  been  discharged  for  a  flagrant  refusal 
to  obey  some  order  given  him  on  the  previous  day.  She  is 
certain  that  the  new  man  showed  her  a  note  of  recommen- 
dation which  bore  the  name  and  address  of  a  person  living 
in  a  highly  proper  part  of  the  town,  and  that  she  thoroughly 
intended  to  seek  this  person  out  for  the  purpose  of  having 
the  reference  authenticated.  But  almost  immediately  after 
'Bradbourne'  had  been  told  that  he  could  at  least  tempo- 
rarily begin  his  duties,  Voght  was  seized  with  a  worse  attack 
of  his  complaint  than  any  from  which  he  had  yet  suffered. 
For  almost  a  fortnight,  Mrs.  Voght  further  told  me,  her  own 
attendance  upon  the  invalid  was  continuous.  Meanwhile 
the  newly-engaged  servant  had  so  pleased  and  satisfied  her 
husband  by  his  deftness  and  efficiency  that  she  had  gro\vi\ 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


195 


too  grateful  for  having  him  at  all  to  think  of  corroborating 
his  credentials.  "  Indeed,"  she  added,  "  the  plan  of  going 
to  Long  Island  for  change  of  air  had  suddenly  been  formed, 
and  my  chief  thought  was  to  move  the  whole  menage  thither 
as  quickly  as  could  be  done,  since  at  any  hour  a  new  seizure 
might  have  made  the  departure  of  my  husband  impossible." 
These  were  Mrs.  Voght's  words  to  me  yesterday.  Now, 
whether  Bradbourne's  recommendations  were  forged  or  not, 
it  is  hard  to  tell.  Doubtless  all  of  them  were  genuine 
enough.  A  little  money,  used  judicously  in  a  great  city 
like  New  York,  can  buy  the  vouchers  of  seemingly  respect- 
able people.  If  he  wanted  to  get  into  the  Voght  household 
he  must  have  wanted  to  do  it  very  much  indeed,  and  hence, 
being  possessed  of  funds,  he  did  not  scruple  to  pave  his 
way/' 

Hubert  had  been  listening  to  all  this  with  the  most 
fixed  attention.  "  Pave  his  way  ?  "  now  came  the  interrogat- 
ing answer.  "  Pave  his  way,  O'Hara,  for  what  purpose  ? 
If  he  had  intended  to  wreak  any  revenge  on  Voght  for 
having  wronged  his  sister,  he  would  certainly  have  taken 
advantage  of  those  weeks  which  elapsed  after  he  had 
secured  a  footing  near  the  invalid.  And  yet  he  did  not  do 
so ;  we  know  that  he  did  not  do  so."  Here  Hubert  rose 
and  began  to  pace  the  floor  of  his  cell,  while  O'Hara  felt 
pangs  of  pity  at  the  way  in  which  confinement  and  mental 
distress  had  thinningly  told  upon  his  robust  figure.  "I 
think  his  conduct  implies  insanity,"  Hubert  went  on,  as  he 
again  drew  near  his  friend  during  this  nervous  little  walk ; 
"but  I  don't  see  how  it  really  can  imply  anything  more 
definite  in  the  way  of  explanation.  If  Bradbourne  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  kill  Voght  he  would  have  carried  out 
that  intention ;  he  wouldn't  have  waited  .  ."  And  now 
O'Hara  saw  a  smile  of  bitterest  humor  touch  the  speaker's 
lips  .  .  "  No,  he  wouldn't  have  waited  for  me  to  have  per- 
formed the  bloody  business  !  " 

"  How  can  you  !  "  cried  O'Hara,  springing  up  and  grasp- 


196  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

ing  his  friend's  hand.  "  Ah,  this  hateful  prison  and  these 
intolerable  days  of  suspense  are  spoiling  all  your  splendid 
manhood — or  beginning  some  such  vile  work,  surely  !  .  .  . 
Thank  God,  Hubert,  the  ordeal  will  soon  be  ended.  In  a 
little  while,  now,  this  cursed  waiting,  this  abominable 
inaction,  will  have  passed.  Your  trial  will  begin,  and 
whichever  way  it  turns,  its  very  agencies  of  change  will 
prove  a  relief." 

"  Right,  O'Hara,"  murmured  Hubert,  as  be  answered  the 
pressure  of  his  friend's  hand.  "  Anything  will  be  better 
and  more  endurable  than  this  monotony,  this  torpor,  this 
stagnation !  " 

He  drooped  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  still  grasping  the  hand 
of  the  man  who  had  so  richly  and  profoundly  surprised  him 
by  an  undreamed-of  loyalty  and  fidelity.  But  the  eyes  of 
O'Hara,  as  they  gazed  on  the  bowed  head  before  him,  were 
brimming,  at  this  moment,  with  compassionate  tears. 

The  trial  began  on  the  appointed  day.  Throngs  of  people 
came  down  from  New  York  to  be  present  at  it,  and  drowsy, 

ugly  little  L had  never  before  been  so  actively   roused 

into  a  sense  that  it  was  not  a  place  which  civilized  persons 
saw  only  from  the  windows  of  cars.  The  trial  lasted  eight 
days.  Among  the  witnesses  for  the  defence  (as  it  is  best 
here  to  record)  was  Angela.  She  chose  to  appear  and 
testify  that  the  violent  irascibility  of  her  husband's  temper 
might  have  made  him  accuse  Hubert  of  being  his  murderer 
even  at  the  last  mortal  moment  itself.  Many  of  her  friends 
and  acquaintances  had  held  up  their  hands  in  horror  at  her 
willingness  to  aid  the  prisoner  by  what  they  chose  to  term 
such  terribly  self-compromising  means.  But  Angela  had 
shown  an  inflexible  purpose.  No  one  opposed  the  step 
more  than  Hubert,  and  this  she  knew.  As  for  the  opinion 
of  the  world,  she  had  but  a  single  reason  for  not  laughing 
at  it,  and  this  was  that  her  heart  felt  too  heavy  to  let  her 
laugh  at  anything. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  197 

"  What  I  can  do  I  shall  do,"  she  persisted.  "  Let  pro- 
priety shudder  all  it  pleases.  Let  decency  declare  that  I 
am  trampling  on  it.  If  I  can  influence  judge  or  jury  the 
very  least  imaginable  I  shall  be  rewarded  for  all  the  dis- 
comfiture this  ordeal  costs  me." 

It  cost  her  more,  poor  Angela,  than  she  had  anticipated. 
Her  deliberate  choice  had  been  made  to  perform  a  sacrifice 
which  the  law  did  not  necessarily  demand  or  even  request 
of  her,  and  such  an  attitude  was  regarded  by  the  prosecution 
as  a  kind  of  haughty  challenge  flung  at  their  own  strength. 
They  forced  hef  to  feel  this,  and  with  poignancy.  But  she 
never  once  regretted  her  measure.  Some  of  the  cross- 
examiner's  questions  had  made  her  dizzy  and  set  her  cheeks 
tingling ;  the  worst  of  these,  however,  were  "  ruled  out," 
and  she  was  therefore  allowed  to  escape  from  answering 
them.  Meanwhile  a  horrible  dread  stole  through  her  lest 
by  having  appeared  at  all  she  might  be  doing  harm  and  not 
good  to  Hubert.  This  thought  agitated  her  so  wildly  for  a 
short  interval  that  she  was  once  or  twice  on  the  verge  of 
rushing  down  from  the  stand  and  asserting  a  new-formed 
disinclination  to  testify  at  all.  Were  they  going  to  drag  out 
the  whole  hateful  story  of  Alva  AverilFs  treachery? — of 
what  motives  had  caused  her  own  marriage  with  Bleakly 
Voght  ? — of  whether,  after  such  marriage,  her  affections  had 
remained  with  her  former  sweetheart  ?  Would  they  make 
her  lay  bare  all  the  weakness  and  faultiness  of  the  past  in 
order  that  they  might  pour  upon  it  their  vitriolic  sarcasms  ? 
But  no  ;  her  counsel  beat  them  back ;  they  were  strong  men, 
those  lawyers  of  Hubert's,  and  to  fight  against  them  was  to 
recognize  it.  A  few  cheering  whispers  to  Angela  wrought 
with  her  sinking  heart  like  as  many  draughts  of  wine.  She 
very  distinctly  rallied,  and  from  that  time  forward  held  her 
own.  It  shocked  some  sensitive  auditors  wofully  to  hear 
her  cast  disrepute  upon  her  dead  husband— her  "  murdered  " 
husband,  they  put  it — in  order  that  she  might  shield  from 
just  conviction  a  man  who  was  known  once  to  have  loved  her 


198  DIVIDED  LirES. 

passionately  and  doubtless  did  so  still.  Defenders  and 
traducers  took  hot  sides  for  and  against  the  brave  young 
creature,  who  stood  pale  and  resolute  before  the  unpitying 
stares  of  the  packed  court-room,  bent  only  upon  telling  the 
truth  and  telling  it  in  such  a  way  that  it  would  help  to  save 
him.  What  friends  praised  as  her  fine  womanly  fortitude, 
was  called  by  foes  her  coarseness,  her  effrontery,  her  brass. 
The  Voghts,  the  Lexingtons,  and  a  few  other  relations  of 
her  husband  cut  her  dead  from  that  hour.  Some  of  them 
were  in  the  court-room  while  she  spoke  the  precise  facts 
regarding  Bleakly  Voght's  wayward  and  domineering  nature. 
They  knew  that  these  were  facts,  and  that  the  public  revela- 
tion of  them  might  materially  assist  the  working  of  justice, 
and  yet  they  ground  their  teeth  with  vexation,  and  said  to 
one  another  :  "  She  has  got  hold  of  his  money  and  is  living 
on  it,  and  yet  she  dares  to  talk  against  him  like  this !"  "  Oh, 
•what  ought  one  to  expect  from  the  daughter  of  such  a 
father  ?  Poor  Bleakly  should  have  been  warned  by  the  girl's 
tainted  blood !" 

But  Angela  did  not  care  for  the  Lexingtons  and  their  patri- 
cian allies.  She  would  have  torn  out  her  tongue  rather 
than  have  wronged  Bleakly  Voght's  memory  by  the  faintest 
untruth,  the  dimmest  reflection  of  a  calumny.  She  believed, 
however,  that  he  had  charged  Hubert  with  his  assassination, 
while  he  felt  himself  to  be  dying,  from  impulses  which  were 
a  certain  result  ^f  his  old  jealous  hostility.  She  believed 
this  down  to  the  inmost  depths  of  her  spirit,  and  thus  believ- 
ing, she  judged  herself  irrefutably  right  in  giving  publicity 
to  her  faith. 

The  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  had  rendered  her  posi- 
tion all  the  more  difficult  and  unpopular.  Hugh  Magee  and 
the  two  workmen  had  stated  honestly  enough  what  they  had 
seen  and  heard,  but  Bradbourne  (or  Heath,  as  he  should  now 
be  called)  had  exhibited  so  much  perturbation,  prevarication, 
and  palpable  insecurity  of  statement  that  here  and  there 
he  produced  the  impression  of  struggling  to  shield  the  prisoner 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


'99 


whom  his  unvarnished  story  would  have  otherwise  plainly 
injured.  The  account  of  what  he  had  overheard  Hubert 
say  to  Voght  was  wrung  forth  from  his  hueless  and  quiver- 
ing lips.  He  looked  like  a  man  beset  with  a  perilous 
illness,  and  once  or  twice  he  placed  an  emaciated  hand 
against  the  region  of  his  heart,  as  though  to  still  pulsations 
there  that  were  almost  costing  him  his  consciousness.  But 
the  full  sum  of  what  he  had  to  disclose  was  finally  forced 
from  him,  in  so  far  as  concerned  anything  which  might 
jeopardize  Hubert's  favorable  chances.  He  gave  an  ex- 
haustive account  of  the  disputatious  parley  between  the 
prisoner  and  his  master,  and  created  the  profoundest  sensation 
by  this  most  implicating  narrative.  At  last  he  retired,  totter- 
ing, enerv'e,  while  everybody  felt  as  if  one  of  the  beams  had 
been  firmly  planted  which  was  to  help  make  a  scaffold  for 
Hubert. 

Still,  the  adverse  evidence  began  and  continued  purely 
circumstantial.  Hubert's  own  plea  was  that  the  death  of 
Voght  had  been  caused  by  an  accidental  explosion  of  his  own 
gun,  and  although  Heath's  testimony  had  pointed  toward  per- 
jury on  the  part  of  the  slayer,  it  nevertheless  had  substan- 
tiated no  such  proof.  Many  a  man  has  been  hanged  on  a 
good  deal  less  actual  certainty  of  guilt ;  but  Hubert's  law- 
yers were  astuteness  itself :  they  allowed  no  point  to  slip 
their  lynx-like  visions.  The  shooting  had  occurred,  and  so 
had  that  harsh  previous  conference;  but  Heath,  though  he 
may  have  heard  one,  had  not  seen  the  other.  Then  the  ad- 
mission on  this  man's  part  that  he  was  the  brother  of  a 
woman  whom  Bleakly  Voght  had  wronged  and  that  he  had 
engaged  himself  in  the  service  of  the  latter  for  purposes  of 
possible  yet  unachieved  vengeance,  threw  an  arriere pensfc 
of  cheapening  influence  over  nearly  everything  that  he  had 
said.  Or,  at  least,  the  dexterous  counsel  of  Hubert  spared 
no  pains  to  produce  this  result.  What,  they  queried  with 
scorching  irony,  was  the  credibility  of  a  witness  who  admit- 
ted himself  to  have  perpetrated  so  insane  a  freak  ?  Or  did 


200  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

he  merely  write  down  his  own  cowardly  pusillanimity,  and 
concede  that  he  had  entered  the  Voghts'  home  for  the  pur- 
pose of  killing  its  proprietor,  but  later  had  found  courage  fail 
him?  Could  any  intelligent  jury  be  asked  to  believe  this 
tale  of  a  hot  quarrel  between  the  prisoner  and  Voght,  when 
told  by  so  curious  a  blending  of  the  jackanapes  and  the  pol- 
troon ?  One  moment  the  witness  granted  that  he  crossed 
Bleakly  Voght's  threshold  with  the  intention  of  dealing  death 
to  that  gentleman ;  the  next  he  affirmed  that  "  from  day  to 
day  he  lingered  on,  undecided  regarding  his  actions  at 
almost  any  hour."  And  to  the  statements  of  so  vacillating 
yet  vicious  a  being  was  to  be  entrusted  the  very  life  of  a  man 
with  so  flawless  a  personal  record  as  that  which  Hubert 
Throckmorton  had  long  conspicuously  possessed  !  . 

This  turn  of  the  argument  secretly  troubled  Hubert  very 
much.  Heath  had  spoken  the  complete  truth  concerning 
his  turbulent  interview  with  Voght :  why  seek  to  prove  the 
truth  a  falsehood  ?  It  was  an  odious  course  of  procedure, 
Hubert  passionately  meditated,  and  as  he  sat  listening  he 
became  almost  over-mastered  by  an  impulse  to  leap  up  and 
hurl  denial  at  his  own  advocate.  And  yet  what  mad  folly 
would  attend  a  step  like  that  ?  No  ;  he  had  given  him- 
self into  the  hands  of  these  men  because  they  were  nimble 
manipulators  of  the  law,  not  because  they  devoutly  served 
the  spirit  of  it.  If  no  straight  path  could  be  found  toward 
the  legal  assertion  of  his  innocence,  he  must  resign  himself 
to  the  discovery  of  a  crooked  one,  provided  this  reached  for 
him  the  acquittal  that  was  his  right. 

Many  "  exceptions  "  had  been  taken  by  the  defence.  In 
case  a  verdict  of  "  guilty  "  were  pronounced,  his  counsel 
were  hopeful,  toward  the  close  of  the  fourth  day,  that  a  new 
trial  could  be  secured.  As  before  recorded,  the  trial  oc- 
cupied a  space  of  eight  days.  The  jury  were  "  out  "  four, 
and  several  hours  previous  to  the  bringing  in  of  the  verdict 
a -report  had  got  wind  that  they  would  soon  make  known 
their  inability  to  agree.  O'Hara,  who  had  seemed  to  himself 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  201 

like  a  wretched  blasphemer  while  delivering  those  compul- 
sory statements  which  aided  the  arraigners  of  his  friend,  dis- 
played toward  Hubert,  during  that  almost  insupportable  in- 
terim of  suspense,  a  devotion  as  spontaneous  as  it  was  charm- 
ing .  .  .  And  at  last  the  end  came.  It  had  been  a  trial 
rather  more  replete  with  drama  than  most  affairs  of  the  same 
criminal  sort.  In  some  ways  it  had  been  as  technically  dull 
as  far  more  ordinary  trials  ;  in  others,  it  had  almost  equalled 
that  lurid  intensity  of  development  which  the  trials  loved  of 
conventional  novel-writers  are  sure  to  exhibit.  Its  termina- 
tion was  a  surprise  to  everyone,  a  delight  to  some  few,  a 
source  of  shocked  regret  to  a  good  many  others,  and  to  a  very 
large  majority  indeed  the  opportunity  for  scornful  comments 
upon  those  miserably  perverse  methods  by  which  our  re- 
publican justice  is  too  often  administered. 

Hubert's  astonishingly  clever  lawyers  had  saved  him. 
There  had  been  one  missing  link  in  the  evidence  against 
him,  and  on  the  existence  of  this  they  had  harped  with  so 
consummate  a  skill  of  iteration  that  the  judge,  while  making 
his  charge  to  the  jury,  had  re-clad  it  in  terms  of  decisive  offi 
cial  injunction. 

The  verdict,  delivered  amid  the  bluish  wintry  dusk  of  a 
cheerless  afternoon,  was  "  Not  guilty."  O'Hara's  hand  was 
the  first  to  grasp  Hubert's  in  vehement  congratulation. 

"  Thank  God,  my  boy  !  "  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  voice. 

"  Thank  God — for  what  ?  "  asked  Hubert,  with  a  quiet, 
searching  look. 

"  For  what?  why,  that  you're  free,"  broke  forth  O'Hara. 

Hubert  slowly  nodded  once  or  twice.  "Yes,  free,"  he 
murmured.  "But  how?  Free  with  a  stained  name.  Free 
to  be  despised  and  shunned  by  my  fellow-men  for  the 
rest  of  my  lifetime  !  .  .  .  Ah,  do  you  think  I  do  not  un- 
derstand just  how  free  I  am  ?  " 

"  No,  no ! "  denied  O'Hara.  "There  may  be  some  people 
who  will — " 

"Don't  talk  that  way,"  interrupted   Hubert,  laying  a  hand 


202  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

on  his  friend's  arm.  "  The  entire  world  of  my  acquaintance 
believes,  at  this  hour,  that  I  have  just  missed  the  gallows  by 
a  hair's  breadth,  that  I  have  been  adroitly  steered  to  acquittal 
by  the  shrewdness  of  my  counsel,  that  I  am  and  shall  remain 
the  unpunished  murderer  of  Bleakly  Voght." 

These  words  were  very  composedly  uttered.  .  .  .  O'Hara 
simply  wrung  the  hand  of  him  who  had  spoken  them.  He 
had  no  honest  response  ready,  and  any  other,  at  such  a  time, 
would  be  the  most  piteous  of  mockeries.  For  all  that 
Hubert  had  said  he  felt  to  be  most  dismally  true  1 


XV. 

THAT  same  evening  Hubert  returned  to  New  York.  As 
the  dusky  starlit  ievels  of  Long  Island  slipped  past  his  view, 
he  made  a  mental  vow  that  he  would  never  set  foot  there 
again.  While  the  train  was  plunging  through  malodorous 
and  slatternly  Hunter's  Point,  just  before  it  came  to  a  final 
pause,  he  caught  himself  laughing  audibly. 

O'Hara,  who  occupied  the  seat  in  front  of  his  own  in 
the  almost  empty  car,  turned  sharply  at  this  extraordinary 
sound. 

"  I  suppose  you're  thunderstruck,  are  you  not,  old  fel- 
low ? "  Hubert  said. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  am,  rather,"  O'Hara  replied.  "  But  it's  a 
hundredfold  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry,  if  you'll  forgive  my 
platitude." 

"  I  was  laughing,"  Hubert  said,  "  at  the  positive  refresh- 
ment that  these  horrible  Hunter's  Point  smells  from  oil-tanks 
and  bone-factories  were  able  to  afford  me." 

"  Refreshment !  " 

"  Yes.  If  anyone  had  told  me  such  a  thing  were  possible 
a  few  months  ago  !  And  I  had  got  so  to  dislike  New  York 
before  a  certain  .  .  misfortune  occurred.  Now  I've  an 
actual  throbbing  desire  to  walk  its  pavements  once  more ! 
There's  the  thought  of  release — of  getting  abroad  into  the 
world  again  and  merely  moving  one's  limbs  at  liberty — that 
is  mixed  up,  no  doubt,  with  local  feelings  like  these.  The 
last  time  I  breathed  New  York  air,  you  know,  there  had 
never  been  a  shadow  across  my  personal  freedom.  Oh,  that 
hideous  kind  of  absence  has  all  made  such  a  difference  !  I 
shall  go  back  wdth  sensations  that  I  ought  to  apologize  to 
Fifth  Avenue  for  ever  having  denied  it  was  beautiful." 
203 


2O4  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

As  the  ferry-boat  landed  them  at  Thirty- Fourth  Street  they 
heard  boys  crying  extras,  and  in  a  little  while  had  succeeded 
in  making  out  that  the  apparent  gibberish  yelled  from  sev- 
eral lusty  little  throats  at  once,  was —  "  The  acquittal  of 
Throckmorton."  Hubert  stepped  into  a  carriage,  shudder, 
ing.  But  just  as  O'Hara  was  about  to  follow  him  he  said  in 
a  low  voice,  "  Get  one  of  those  things,  will  you  ?  "  And 
O'Hara  complied. 

Hubert  did  not  glance  at  the  paper  until  he  reached  home. 
There  were  lights  in  the  drawing-room  windows  of  his  spa- 
cious old  dwelling ;  he  saw  this  through  a  sudden  mist  of 
tears.  They  had  received  his  telegram  ;  one  or  two-  of  the 
servants  who  had  been  with  the  family  in  his  father's  and 
mother's  time  must  be  met  and  spoken  to.  He  controlled 
himself  by  a  severe  effort  while  springing  from  the  carriage 
and  ascending  the  low,  familiar  stoop. 

"  Through  every  stage  of  life  my  feet  have  trod  the  stone 
of  these  very  steps,"  he  murmured  to  O'Hara.  "  How  little 
I  ever  dreamed  that  I  should  ascend  them  like  this  !  I  have 
come  '  back  home,'  you  know,  from  many  various  parts  of  the 
world,  and  with,  ah,  so  many  varying  emotions  !  Once  my 
poor  father  was  lying  dangerously  ill,  and  I  had  taken  the 
steamer  with  wild  haste  at  Southampton,  ten  days  before,  on 
hearing  the  unhappy  news.  I  remember  how  my  heart  flut- 
tered in  my  breast  as  I  went  up  these  steps  then,  fearing  to 
meet  the  truth  which  must  be  met  in  a  minute  or  two  .  .  . 
My  God,  if  it  were  like  that  now!  .  .  I  should  be  standing 
here  praying  that  I  might  find  him  dead  !".... 

A  little  later,  as  they  entered  the  hall,  Hubert  said  to  his 
companion,  motioning  toward  the  drawing-rooms  :  "  Ge  in 
there,  and  I  will  join  you  presently." 

O'Hara  obeyed ;  he  had  seen  a  pale  gray-haired  woman 
and  an  elderly  man  standing  in  the  rather  obscure  back- 
ground of  the  hall,  and  soon  he  heard  something  that 
seemed  very  much  like  the  sound  of  a  feminine  sob  or  two. 
But  after  the  briefest  of  absences  Hubert  made  his  appear- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  2O5 

ance.  He  tried  to  smile  as  his  gaze  met  O'Hara's,  but 
the  attempt  bore  a  sadder  result  than  if  he  had  failed  to 
make  it. 

"  Poor  old  Ellen  !  "  he  said.  "  No  wonder  she's  over- 
come. She  used  to  be  my  nurse  .  .  .  Then  there's  Richard, 
too;  he  was  our  butler  thirty  years  ago."  Suddenly  he 
seemed  forcing  his  manner  into  a  factitious  brightness.  '  I 
ought  to  be  gay  to-night,  oughtn't  I  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
do  you  say  to  a  stroll,  O'Hara — a  long  stroll  somewhere 
among  the  quiet  down-town  streets,  where  we're  sure  not  to 
meet  a  soul  that  will  know  us?  (I  mean  after  dinner,  of 
course  ;  it's  almost  ready  to  be  served  now.)  We  might  find 
some  clean,  out-of-the-way  place  and  have  a  glass  of  beer 
there,  quite  a  la  Boheme.  .  .  It's  so  strange ;  I've  a  longing 
to  do  something  that  will  prove  to  me  I'm  a  free  man  again, 
and  yet  I  shiver  to  think  of  going  where  people  may  by 
the  least  possible  chance  recognize  me  ...  Oh,  that  paper 
you  bought.  Have  you  it  ?  I'll  just  glance  at  it  before  we 
go  upstairs." 

O'Hara  had  already  done  a  little  more  than  glance  at  the 
sheet.  It  was  lying  on  a  table  near  which  he  stood.  He 
put  his  hand  on  it,  saying  : 

"  If  I  were  you,  old  fellow,  I  wouldn't  look  at  it.  Anyway, 
not  now." 

But  Hubert  did  not  heed  .the  warning.  He  took  the  paper 
up  and  began  reading  it.  The  account  of  the  trial  and  the 
announcement  of  his  acquittal  were  not  what  O'Hara  had 
been  thinking  of.  These  were  inserted  in  a  flaring,  sensa- 
tional, but  not  specially  offensive  way.  On  the  editorial 
page,  however,  was  a  column  in  big  type,  headed  "  Our 
Aristocratic  Murderer."  This  Hubert  soon  saw,  and  this  he 
let  himself  read.  It  was  one  of  those  pieces  of  newspaper 
frenzy  which  contain  about  as  much  moral  force  as  a  rattle- 
snake's bite.  Its  innuendoes  were  founded  on  noxious 
falsehood;  its  accusations  were  all  cowardly  stabs  in  the 
back.  But  it  hurt  Hubert,  notwithstanding  its  paltriness, 


206  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

for  it  made  him  realize  that  it  stood  for  a  certain  phase  of 
public  opinion ;  and  to  reflect  that  there  were  any  of  his 
countrymen  whatever  now  looking  on  him  as  a  red-handed 
assassin  who  had  bought  himself  free  from  the  righteous 
grasp  of  justice,  was  galling  beyond  all  speech.  There  was 
one  long,  vituperative  paragraph,  toward  the  close  of  the  arti- 
cle, which  drew  forth  a  deep  sigh  from  between  Hubert's 
clenched  teeth ;  and  one  sentence  here,  mephitic  and  rancid 
beyond  the  others,  had  been  put  into  this  hatefully  memora- 
ble shape  :  "No  honest  man  should  hereafter  associate  with  the 
criminal  who  has  thus  insolently  flaunted  his  money  in  the  face 
of  our  law  ;  and  every  honest  man  whom  he  meets  ought  to  try 
and  help  teach  him  that  in  thus  having  skulked  away  from  the 
just  recompense  for  his  crime  he  has  only  stamped  himself  more 
deeply  with  the  brand  of  an  unpunished  infamy." 

All  this  was  a  vulgar,  flaunting  tirade  enough,  and  yet  it 
affected  Hubert  at  the  special  forlorn  hour  of  his  home- 
coming, with  an  unspeakable  pang. 

He  flung  down  the  paper.  His  colorless  face  was  work- 
ing ;  his  hands  were  lifted  as  though  to  smite  some  viewless 
foe.  All  his  accustomed  quiet  had  vanished  ;  he  sank  into  a 
chair  beside  the  table  and  bowed  his  head  ;  when  he  lifted 
it  again  O'Hara  saw  that  his  mouth  had  taken  a  downward 
curve  whose  meaning  could  only  be  the  darkest  kind  of 
dejection. 

"  Why  should  I  go  on  living,  now  ?  "  he  softly  yet  miser- 
ably cried.  "  I  have  nothing  to  live/or — nothing  !  " 

O'Hara,  infinitely  pained,  stretched  forth  a  hand,  grasping 
his  arm.  "  You  have  her"  he  said. 

Hubert  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Her  ?  Whom  ?  Angela  ? 
Drag  her  down  to  my  level  ?  make  them  think  harder  things 
of  her  than  what  she  did  to  save  me  has  already  made  them 
think  ?  Ah,  no,  no  !  how  little  you  know  me,  after  all !  " 

'  That  was  an  impolitic  move,'  spoke  the  voice  of  O'Hara's 
exquisite  loyalty.  A  moment  later  he  said  aloud,  going  up 
to  Hubert,  putting  a  hand  on  either  of  his  shoulders  and 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


207 


staring  with  fervor  straight  into  his  desperate,  gloomful  eyes  : 
"  Look  here,  old  chap  ;  that  trash  shouldn't  trouble  you ; 

you're  too  big  for  it.  Judge  K is  an  enemy  of  that 

paper.  It  always  was  filthy  in  its  manner  of  showing  its 
dislikes,  and  it's  got  as  many  as  a  porcupine  has  quills. 
The  judge  that  sat  on  your  case  offended  it  a  year  or  two 
ago  by  stumping  the  State  contrary  to  its  rotten  partisan 
opinions.  Can't  you  see  that  you're  not  so  much  black- 
guarded as  the  official  who  gave  the  charge  to  your  jury  ? 
Come,  now,  be  a  man.  This  won't  do  at  all.  You've  lots  of 
friends  and  supporters  left  .  .  you'll  see  to-morrow  if  you 
haven't."  .  .  . 

To-morrow  did  not  corroborate  O'Hara's  rosy  prophecy, 
nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  next.  A  few  congratulatory  letters 
reached  Hubert,  but  decidedly  a  few.  Before  long  he 
learned  that  the  most  prominent  metropolitan  club  of  which 
he  was  a  member  had  seriously  debated  the  question  of 
demanding  his  resignation.  But  no  such  demand  reached 
him.  There  was  a  friendly  element  working  in  his  favor,  or 
at  least  one  that  expressed  the  refusal  to  accredit  him  with 
cold-bloodedly  murderous  motives.  A  certain  faction  de- 
clared that  if  he  had  really  shot  Voght  with  intent  to  kill  he 
had  done  so  from  a  terrible  previous  exasperation.  Another 
faction  shook  its  head  cogitatively,  dubiously  over  the  evi- 
dence of  Heath,  alias  Bradbourne.  Still  another  (smaller, 
decidedly  smaller)  credited  his  claim  with  regard  to  an  acci- 
dental manslaughter.  This  one  leading  club  was  large 
enough  to  contain  many  men  of  many  varying  views. 
Hence,  after  a  little  while,  Hubert's  legal  exoneration  was 
socially  admitted,  and  the  final  mordant  humiliation  was 
spared  him  of  being  officially  treated  as  a  man  not  worthy 
the  companionship  of  gentlemen. 

But  in  a  practical  sense  he  soon  perceived  that  his  ostra- 
cism had  become  a  partial  if  not  a  complete  fact.  He  never 
entered  the  doors  of  any  of  his  clubs ;  he  lived  a  life  almost 
thorough  in  its  isolation  and  solitude,  except  for  the  visits  of 


208  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

O'Hara,  which  were  frequent,  and  excessively  welcome. 
Sometimes  in  the  day  he  would  walk  abroad,  avoiding,  for 
the  most  part,  streets  in  which  he  would  meet  former  ac- 
quaintances. Yet  such  occasional  encounters  were  unavoid- 
able, and  when  they  took  place  a  cold  bow  or  a  distinct  cut 
would  sometimes  be  the  consequence.  He  grew  to  hate 
New  York  as  he  had  never  hated  it  before ;  always  previ- 
ously his  distaste  for  it  had  been  of  the  dilettante  kind ;  he 
had  said  to  himself  that  it  was  a  bad  sort  of  place  to  live  in, 
that  it  failed  to  give  a  fellow  the  least  chance  for  dreaming 
nice  dreams,  that  to  an  idler  like  himself  who  spent  most  of 
his  time  avec  les  bras  eroisfa  it  was  fatally  unsatisfactory. 
But  now  it  had  become  for  him  a  metropolis  teeming 
with  loathsome  associations.  Some  of  his  kinsmen  and 
kinswomen  had  paid  duteous  calls  upon  him,  and  after  each 
one  of  them  had  done  so  he  thanked  God  that  he  or  she  was 
but  remotely  allied  to  him  by  blood  and  that  the  chill  hypoc- 
risy of  such  sympathy  as  theirs  need  not  be  encountered 
more  than  once. 

"  I  hate  to  lose  you,  and  yet  you  should  go  abroad," 
O'Hara  repeatedly  said  to  him.  And  one  day  he  added: 
"  In  my  last  issue  of  our  paper,  you  know,  I  almost  con- 
structed an  editorial  on  the  advisability  of  it." 

Hubert's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  then,  as  he  grasped  his 
friend's  hand.  "  My  dear  old  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  but 
remember  how  you  studiously  avoided  mentioning  that  Long 
Branch  quarrel  in  your  paper,  and  how,  afterward,  while  the 
trial  was  pending  and  while  it  was  in  operation  you  never 
allowed  a  single  line  to  be  printed  there.  You  had  a  devilish 
hard  time  with  your  co-editors,  too ;  you  needn't  deny  that 
you  did ;  a  chance  word,  unintentionally  dropped  every  now 
and  then,  told  me  so.  .  .  But  now,  when  half  the  town — I 
may  almost  say  half  the  country — is  hot  against  me,  you 
make  your  journal  brim  with  my  attempted  vindication.  .  . 
Well,  you  ask  me  why  I  don't  go  abroad  and  quit  the  whole 
abominated  environment.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  There  are 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


209 


two  reasons.  One  is  what  my  prison-life  has  led  me  to  look 
for  and  help  in  this  woe-begone  town." 

O'Hara  nodded  :  "  I  know  ;  you  spend  hours  every  day  in 
the  dens  and  slums.  You've  tried  once  or  twice  to  keep  it 
from  me, 'but  I've  found  you  out;  so  now,  I  suppose,  you're 
going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  .  .  eh,  my  boy  ?  " 

Hubert  answered  his  friend's  nod.  They  were'  sitting 
together  in  his  dining-room  over  their  after-dinner  coffee  and 
cigars.  "  That  is  my  first  reason,  precisely  as  I  have  told 
you."  His  face  flushed,  his  usually  grave  eye  sparkled,  as 
he  went  on :  "  O'Hara,  what  I  find  among  the  poor  here  is 
beyond  all  my  powers  of  telling.  The  so-called  charities  of 
Christianity  never  dream  of  reaching  those  horrors  that  I 
see.  .  .  I  go  everywhere  ;  I  dive  into  the  lowest  quarters.  I 
nearly  always  had  detectives  at  first,  to  go  with  me,  but  now 
I  very  often  go  alone.  There  are  holes  so  horrible  that  you 
would  not  believe  their  existence  unless  I  brought  you  there. 
Think,  my  friend,  of  cellars  where  Chinamen  sell  opium  to 
young  girls — often  girls  not  more  than  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years  old — at  a  price  too  revolting  for  me  to  do  more  than 
hint  its  vileness.  Think  of  dance-houses  where  quadrilles 
are  formed  on  big  board  floors  every  night,  with  each  male 
dancer  a  thief  and  each  woman  at  his  side  the  strumpet  by 
whose  harlotry  he  lives.  Think  of  countless  low  sheds,  with 
rickety  doors,  at  the  end  of  reeking  alleys,  where  eight  and 
ten  people,  male  and  female,  lie  on  shelves  reeking  with  ver- 
min, between  walls  whose  pendant  cobwebs  are  a  ghastly 
parody  of  Mrs.  Manhattan's  or  Mrs.  Amsterdam's  yellow  old 
family  laces.  Think  of  children  born  in  holes  like  these  by 
mothers  who  are  drunk  when  they  bear  them ;  think  of  tav- 
erns where  the  only  drink  sold  is  a  stale  malt  stuff,  the  leav- 
ings of  drained  beer-kegs.  Think  of  all  brutality,  bestiality, 
infamy,  desperation,  grovelling  and  wallowing  sinfulness, 
grown  an  incessant  part  of  the  daily  and  nightly  events  our 
sun  and  our  stars  gaze  upon  in  this  monstrous  town.  .  . 
Well,  I  prowl  about  through  all  these  base,  lewd  haunts,  and 


2IO  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

thank  heaven  I'm  rich  enough  to  drag  some  few  wretches 
out  of  them  that  arc  willing  to  be  cleansed  and  given  a 
decent  chance  against  the  curse  of  heredity.  I  go  deeper 
than  most  of  the  best  charities  go.  Some  of  these  are  very 
good  ;  they  are  trying  to  work  wonders.  I  don't  know  that 
I  have  half  the  beneficent  aim  they  possess.  I'm  merely 
trying  to  show  myself,  all  the  time,  that  the  experience  I've 
passed  through  might have  sunk  me  in  the  grossest  pessimism, 
but  has'nt ; — that,  in  other  words,  it's  taught  me  how  fortu- 
nate I  am,  after  all.  I  don't  claim  that  my  motive  is  other 
than  a  really  selfish  one  at  heart.  But  you  see  it  now  for 
what  it's  worth." 

"  I  see  it,"  said  O'Hara  dryly,  as  Hubert  paused.  For  a 
little  while  he  remained  silent  ...  A  remembrance  had 
visited  him  of  his  old  half-deserted  ideal ;  he  thought  of 
how  closer  association  with  Hubert,  of  how  intimacy  with 
this  man's  stoically-borne  agony,  had  roused  and  kindled 
him  to  a  finer  and  sincerer  action ;  of  how  he  had  fought 
with  his  co-laborers  on  the  paper  which  he  and  they  edited 
for  a  truer  and  loftier  standard  of  journalism,  and  of  how  he 
had  finally  prevailed  with  them  and  won  them  to  his  cause, 
notwithstanding  a  certain  decrease  in  immediate  and  tempo- 
rary profits. 

A  little  later  he  went  on,  puffing  at  his  cigar  with  a  com- 
monplace pertinacity,  as  if  it  had  gone  out,  which  it  had  not 
done  at  all,  and  which  the  volumes  of  smoke  that  it  exuded 
quite  nebulously  told  : 

"  I  see — of  course  I  see,  my  dear  Hubert.  You've  about 
forty  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  you  might  keep  a  coach, 
a  yacht,  and  goodness  knows  what  else.  You  don't,  how- 
ever ;  you  go  into  frightful  places  like  that,  and  God  bless 
you  for  doing  it  ...  So  here's  your  first  reason  for  not 
wandering  off  into  Europe,  Asia,  anywhere  you  might  choose. 
A  mightily  commendable  reason,  I  admit  .  .  .  But  now 
for  the  second  reason.  Recollect  you  said  there  were  two." 

Hubert  began  absently  to  pass  his  forefinger  round  the 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  211 

rim  of  his  finger-bowl.  "  Oh,  yes,  there  are  two  reasons  .  . 
I  said  so,  and  I  meant  it." 

"  And  the  other,"  said  O'Hara  softly,  after  a  renewed 
pause,  "  the  other  is  .  .  .  ?" 

Hubert  lifted  his  head  and  stared  at  his  companion. 
"  You  know,"  he  murmured. 

O'Hara  put  both  elbows  on  the  white  table-cloth,  and 
ransacked  the  face  of  his  host  with  those  hazel  eyes  that 
Hubert  had  learned  to  read  and  to  love  so  well. 

"  She  never  ceases  thinking  of  you,  my  boy,"  he  said. 
"  She's  there,  up  town,  waiting  for  you  to  give  her  a  sign. 
Why  don't  you  ?  Why  won't  you  ?  " 

"  A  sign  ? "  repeated  Hubert,  with  his  voice  grown  very 
low ;  "  what  sign  ?  " 

"Ah,"  said  O'Hara,  looking  down  and  shaking  his  head; 
"  you  understand  me  ;  you  must !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered,  with  the  hoarse  note  of  pain 
in  his.  modulated  tones.  "  But  it's  of  no  use.  Perhaps  .  . 
I  only  say  perhaps,  mind  .  .  .  she  would  even  agree  to 
marry  me — " 

"  Agree  !  "  shot  in  O'Hara.  "  Ask  her,  and  find  out  for 
yourself.  Just  ask  her — that's  all  !  " 

Hubert  turned  paler.  Those  words  of  O'Hara's  pierced 
his  heart ;  they  told  him  what  he  had  already  been  a  good 
deal  more  than  half  sure  of  regarding  Angela — that  she  had 
longed  to  see  him,  or  at  least  hear  from  him,  for  weeks  past. 

That  night,  some  time  between  midnight  and  morning, 
when  the  large  house  was  still  as  death  and  the  larger  city 
which  encompassed  it  was  almost  as  still,  he  sat  alone  and 
wrote  Angela  a  letter.  He  poured  out  his  love  and  his 
sorrow  to  her  equally.  It  was  a  letter  meant  to  be  final. 
She  would  ever  remain  the  idol  of  his  life — he  would  never 
marry.  But  they  must  try  to  forget  one  another.  Not  that 
either  would  succeed,  but  that  both  must  try.  A  dire 
fatality  had  launched  itself  between  their  loves.  Once— not 
so  very  long  ago— it  had  looked  as  though  death  might 


212  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

bring  light  to  them  in  place  of  darkness.  Then  death  had 
come,  and  with  it  a  darkness  that  must  prove,  for  all  they 
knew,  one  eternal  night  ...  It  was  a  hopeless,  unanswer- 
able letter.  And  yet  Angela  answered  it  at  once,  on  the 
following  day.  She  sent  her  reply  not  by  mail  but  by  mes- 
senger. It  was  very  short,  and  its  chief  sentence  ran  thus  : 
"  I  concede  all  that  you  say,  from  your  point  of  view,  and  yet 
I  beg  that  you  will  let  me  give  you  mine,  not  as  I  might 
write  it  here  on  paper,  but  as  I  desire  to  express  it  in 
spoken  words."  She  furthermore  mentioned  an  hour  when 
she  would  be  at  home  on  the  following  afternoon.  If  he 
refused  to  come  to  her  she  would  know  it  by  his  silence. 
If  he  accepted,  then  let  him  write  her  a  line  to  this  effect. 

Hubert  sat  gnawing  his  lips  for  quite  a  long  time.  At 
last  he  took  a  sheet  of  note-paper  and  wrote  on  it  at  great 
speed  : 

"  I  will  be  with  you  by  five  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon." 

Then,  sealing  and  directing  this  brief  response,  he  rang  for 
a  servant  and  bade  that  it  be  immediately  sent.  He  was 
in  dread  lest  he  should  recall  it  if  it  were  not  despatched 
with  the  greatest  promptitude  ;  and  about  a  half-hour  or 
so  later,  as  he  had  indeed  anticipated,  a  mood  of  excessive 
regret  overcame  him  that  he  should  have  agreed  to  meet 
Angela  at  all  ... 

On  the  next  da)',  however,  he  punctually  kept  his  appoint- 
ment. Angela  was  living  with  extreme  quiet,  just  now,  in 
a  house  which  she  had  rented  on  East  Fifteenth  Street, 
directly  facing  Stuyvesant  Square.  The  situation  was  one 
of  considerable  retirement ;  "  out  of  the  world "  a  good 
many  of  Angela's  acquaintances  thought  it.  She  herself 
had  been  won  by  the  view  of  the  spacious  parallel  parks 
from  her  upper  windows,  and  the  fine  boulevard-like  sweep 
of  Second  Avenue,  broadly  dividing  them.  There  is  a 
pathos  in  the  fact  of  how  New  York  has  left  to  shabbiness 
and  vulgarity  her  only  two  really  noble  thoroughfares,  the 
Bowery  and  Second  Avenue.  Angela  could  see  nothing 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


213 


save  the  prosperous  and  handsome  part  of  the  latter  street, 
however,  from  her  own  semi-retired  dwelling.  She  had  made 
herself  very  comfortable  as  far  as  material  surroundings  went. 
Her  home  had  been  her  chief  mental  recreation  during 
the  past  winter ;  whenever  she  had  a  specially  keen  heart- 
ache she  would  go  and  talk  with  an  upholsterer,  a  keeper 
of  curios,  a  seller  of  etchings.  The  New  York  of  1880  or 
thereabouts  was  far  from  being  the  same  meagre  market  for 
all  artistic  wares  that  twenty  or  even  ten  previous  years  had 
seen  it.  One  could  make  a  very  charming  home  for  one's 
self,  she  found,  without  going  to  hunt  up  precious  rarities 
in  Paris  or  London.  Besides,  Angela  did  not  desire  any 
particularly  precious  things.  The  income  that  Voght  had 
left  her  was  a  large  one — sixty  thousand  dollars  a  year  if  a 
dime.  But  she  had  as  yet  spent  only  a  comparatively  small 
portion  of  it,  and  for  reasons  that  will  presently  be  shown. 
Those  who  knew  her  either  well  or  ill  equally  marvelled,  as 
the  months  of  her  widowhood  succeeded  one  another,  that 
she  kept  no  carriage.  Indeed,  her  life  amid  the  calm  of 
Stuyvesant  Square  was  hardly  less  sober  and  sedate  than 
the  dreary  hues  of  her  widow's  robes.  Her  eye  craved 
brightness,  grace,  and  felicity  of  encompassment,  and  these 
she  permitted  it  to  enjoy.  No  one  had  ever  supposed  that 
she  had  loved  her  husband,  and  therefore  no  one  could 
understand  her  reasons  for  a  course  of  comparative  econ- 
omy, even  while  the  period  of  conventional  "  mourning"  was 
in  progress.  But  Angela  herself  understood,  and  kept  her 
own  counsel  unalterably.  The  most  intimate  woman  friend 
whom  she  possessed  could  never  gain  from  her  a  single  sat- 
isfactory response  on  this  point.  It  might  be  added  with 
strict  truth,  by  the  way,  that  she  had  no  really  intimate 
friend,  now  that  Alva  Averill  (with  those  terrific  posthumous 
revelations  of  the  latter's  unworthiness  !)  had  passed  away. 
To  Alva  she  had  given  an  immense  confidence,  a  romantic 
ardor  of  admiration.  '  I  seem  to  have  shut  myself  in  my 
shell,'  she  would  sometimes  muse,  '  toward  all  other  women, 


214  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

ever  since  that  unspeakable  deceit  of  Alva's  became  known 
to  me.  I  am  sure  that  I'm  wrong  in  doing  so ;  there  are 
myriads  of  splendid  women  in  the  world,  and  no  one  real- 
izes this  more  clearly  than  I  do.  Perhaps  my  reserve  will 
wear  off  before  I  die.  I  hope  it  will,  for  I  believe  that  the 
woman  who  loses  all  faith  in  her  own  sex  runs  the  chance  of 
becoming,  sooner  or  later,  almost  suicidally  odious  to  her- 
self.' 

But  the  reserve  had  not  worn  off,  and  there  were  forcible 
reasons  for  its  having  failed  to  do  so.  Her  behavior  in 
appearing,  not  long  since,  as  a  witness  against  the  cause 
of  her  dead  husband,  had  created  much  assertive  discussion 
among  many  interested  cliques.  The  droit  du  plus  fort  had 
proved,  as  she  well  knew,  operative  against  her.  A  good 
many  people  sought  her  company  and  outwardly  professed  a 
certain  sympathy  with  the  posture  that  she  had  taken.  She 
could  not  be  sure,  however,  whether  hypocrisy  or  sincerity 
was,  in  more  than  a  single  case,  at  work  among  just  these 
same  professed  adherents.  Meanwhile  she  did  not  specially 
care  on  the  subject.  She  was  incessantly  hopeful,  suspense- 
ful,  expectant  as  regarded  a  totally  different  matter.  But 
hope,  suspense,  expectancy,  all  three  remained  unaltered. 
'  Some  day  he  will  make  some  sign,'  she  kept  telling  herself ; 
'  O'Hara  says  that  he  will — that  it  must  appear  before  very 
long — that  he  will  never  leave  the  country  without  coming 
to  me.' 

The  winter  had  blown,  rained,  frozen,  and  snowed  itself 
into  early  March.  Second  Avenue  had  been  piled  with 
white  drifts  more  than  once,  and  Sluyvesant  Square  had  been 
for  weeks  a  glassy,  bluish  monotony  of  ice,  previous  to  that 
gusty,  heavy-clouded  afternoon  when  Hubert  at  last  ascended 
the  stoop  of  Angela's  house. 

He  sat  for  quite  a  little  time  in  her  front  drawing-room, 
before  she  entered.  He  had  leisure  to  note  in  the  apartment 
certain  evidences  of  her  personality  which  almost  thrilled 
him  like  the  whispered  words  of  dead  friends.  It  was  indeed 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


215 


no  drawing-room  at  all,  but  a  sitting-room  and  library  com- 
bined, with  a  big  garnet  plush  curtain  separating  it  from 
the  remainder  of  the  floor.  Here,  in  low  cases  against  the 
wall,  were  some  of  the  books  they  had  read  together  through 
past  untrammelled,  inestimable  hours.  Here  was  a  glimpse 
of  color  that  he  knew  she  had  always  loved.  Here  was  an 
engraved  copy  of  some  picture  that  she  had  professed  attach- 
ment for  ...  Oh,  how  her  individualism  breathed  to  him 
on  every  side,  in  slight,  yet  vivid  ways !  .  .  And  presently  he 
heard  the  rustling  of  a  dress,  and  felt  certain,  in  the  hyper- 
bole of  his  passionate  sentiment,  that  it  was,  it  must  be,  her 
dress.  It  might  just  as  well,  of  course,  have  proved  to  be 
that  of  her  maid,  or  of  some  other  feminine  being  who  was  a 
total  stranger  to  himself.  But  when  its  prophecy  seemed 
confirmed  by  the  entrance  of  Angela,  he  felt  that  love 
should  have  some  new  word  which  would  aurally  correspond 
to  what  clairvoyance  had  given  a  visual  definition. 

She  placed  her  hand  in  his,  for  a  moment.  "  You  were 
very  punctual,"  she  said,  with  her  blue-gray  eyes  meeting 
his  own  just  long  enough  for  him  to  see  both  fear  and  grief 
in  them.  Then  she  sank  into  a  seat  quite  near  the  one 
which  he  had  taken,  while  he  resumed  his  own. 

"  I  thought,"  he  answered,  with  a  little  gleam  of  smile, 
"that  if  I  came  at  all  I  might  just  as  well  be  on  time." 

"  If  you  came  at  all ! "  She  stared  down  at  her  hands 
where  they  lay  white  and  delicate  as  curled  lily-leaves 
against  the  dead-black  of  her  dress.  He  saw  her  under-lip 
quiver  for  a  second  ;  then  he  saw  her  tighten  it  against  her 
hidden  teeth,  as  though  to  be  prepared  for  another  such 
tremulous  movement,  should  one  arrive.  After  a  slight 
pause,  she  added,  again  looking  up  at  him  :  "  And  so  you 
did  not  want  to  come — you  debated  about  it  in  your  own 
mind,  and  almost  refused  to  come,  even  .  .  even  after  the 
letter  I  wrote  you  ?  " 

He  answered  her  with  a  sudden  gloomy  bluntness  for 
which  she  was  unprepared.  "  I  was  mad  to  come  ;  I  knew 


2l6  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

it,  felt  it,  when  I  sent  you  back  that  '  yes.'  It's  tearing 
an  old  wound  open.  Not  that  the  wound  had  ever  healed, 
or  ever  would  heal." 

She  clasped  both  her  hands  tightly  together,  and  held 
them  pressed  thus.  A  little  spot  of  the  chilly  March  sun- 
shine swam  in  through  a  window  near  by,  and  rested  like  a 
yellow  jewel  amid  the  auburn  waves  of  her  rich,  dense  hair. 
'  How  lovely  she  is  ! '  he  thought.  '  What  might  not  such  a 
woman,  if  she  were  bad,  make  a  man  do  for  her  ? ' 

She  began  in  a  low  and  hesitating  voice  that  soon  grew 
louder  and  firmer  : 

"  I  should  be  prepared  to  hear  you  speak  just  like  that ; 
I  should  be  prepared  because  of  your  letter.  So  much  of 
exactly  that  expression,  that  tendency,  was  there.  You  say 
it  is  best  that  we  should  not  even  exchange  any  further 
words  together  at  all.  You  insist  that  you  have  forgiven  me 
for  marrying  as  I  did — " 

"  Yes,"  he  interrupted  ;  "  I  have  forgiven  you.  I  know 
how  you  have  suffered  since.  That  you  could  have  done  it, 
I .  .  well,  I  hate  to  reflect  on  the  point  of  your  having  been 
able  to  do  it.  But,  as  I  say,  your  punishment  came  to  you 
and  you've  expiated  your  fault.  Mind,  if  you  had  cared  for 
him,  I  would  not  have  called  it  a  fault — if  you  had  cared  for 
him  enough,  that  is,  to  become  his  wife  with  the  least  .  .  the 
least.  ." 

It  was  her  turn  to  interrupt  now,  and  she  did  so  with  a 
ring  of  sharp  censure  in  her  tones.  "  Oh,  I  see  that  you 
have  not  forgiven  me  for  marrying  him.  You  have  not,  and 
you  never  will !  That  is  why  you  treat  me  as  you  do  !  That 
is  why  you  declare  that  your  coming  here  is  a  madness  !  " 

"  No,  no,  Angela !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  protested.  "  Men  never  pardon  certain 
things  in  women — never.  I've  thought  it  all  over  so  much 
and  so  often."  Her  accent  had  become  as  bitter  as  it  was 
mournful,  now.  "You  assert — you  are  so  self-satisfied  in 
your  assertion — that  consideration  for  me  is  the  only  motive 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  2 1/ 

you  have,  in  .  .  acting  as  you  are.  But  it's  yourself  that 
you're  remembering  all  the  time — it's  that  wound  you've 
just  told  me  about — that  wound  which  will  never  heal  !  You 
don't  mean  any  wound  that  comes  from  losing  me  ;  you 
could  heal  it  if  you  did,  and  .  .  and  you  know  how. 
Oh,  I  dare  say  this  may  sound  unwomanly,  immodest,  to 
you  ;  but  I  don't  care.  I  want  to  face  the  truth  and  speak 
the  truth.  Your  self-love  has  been  wounded ;  you  won't 
acknowledge  it,  even  to  yourself,  but  that  explains  everything 
in  your  present  course.  I'm  .  .  I'm  .  .  impure,  denied, 
repellent  to  you,  in  a  certain  way — " 

"  Angela !  " 

"  Yes  !  If  you'll  sound  the  depths  of  your  own  feelings 
towards  me,  you'll  find  that  I'm  right — right.  Now  that  I'm 
free,  you  discover  that  there  are  gossips  and  scandal-mongers 
in  the  world  who  might  destroy  my  peace  of  mind,  provided 
a .  .  a  certain  step  were  taken  by  me.  As  if  I  had  not 
trampled  on  all  that,  months  ago,  when  I  chose  to  appear 
in  court  and  say  what  I  did !  As  if  my  action  then  were  not 
proof  enough  how  I  minded  the  pros  and  cons  of  popular 
opinion !  If  I'd  been  afraid  of  what  society's  cackle  and 
clatter  could  do  to  my  peace  of  mind,  do  you  suppose  I 
would  not  have  shown  it  then  ?" 

"You  showed  it  then  most  heroically,  Angela," he  said. 
"  But  even  that  was  a  torment  to  me.  I  hated  seeing  you 
clad  in  such  glaring  publicity — and  on  my  own  account !  " 

"  Why  not  on  your  account  ?  I  owed  you  some  reparation. 
Was  I  not  the  cause  of  all  that  had  passed  ? " 

"You  mean,"    he  asked,   "  the— the  killing   ofVoght?" 

"  I  mean  everything." 

"  Good  heavens,"  he  began,  "you  don't  think,  then,  that 
I  really — ?  But  no  ;  it's  impossible." 

"  No,  no,"  she  swiftly  agreed  ;  "  and  you  should  not  wrong 
me  by  even  such  a  fleeting  suspicion." 

"  Your  pardon  !  "  he  entreated.  "  How  could  I  think  you 
doubted  whether  I  was  a  murderer  or  not  ?  you  who.  .  .  ." 


2 1 8  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"Ah,  say  it  all  right  out ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  he  paused. 
The  color  bathed  her  face  as  though  all  the  air  of  the 
room  had  suddenly  grown  rosy,  and  her  eyes  were  like  two 
winter  stars.  "  I  who  am  willing  to  be  your  wife — who  have 
almost  begged  you,  in  so  many  words,  to  marry  me  !  " 

"Angela!"  he  said  once  more,  but  this  time  with  an 
intonation  of  the  most  melancholy  remonstrance. 

"  I  will  not  molest  you  ever  again,"  she  went  on,  "  if  you 
will  once  assure  me  that  I've  not  made  a  misjudgment. 
Only  say  to  me  '  I  swear  that  it's  true  I  never  could  quite 
forgive  your  marriage,  and  this  is  my  actual  motive  for  my 
present  course  toward  you.'  Only  say  those  words,  giving 
me  your  oath — yes,  your  solemn  oath  as  a  man  of  honor — 
that  you  mean  them,  and  I  will  promise  sacredly  on  my  part 
never  to  write  you,  and  never  to  try  and  see  you  from  this 
hour.  ...  I  will  even  promise  that  if  we  should  meet  any- 
where at  any  future  time  I  will  not  show  by  the  faintest 
sign  .  .  " 

He  rose,  then,  waving  one  uplifted  hand.  "  What  are  you 
saying  ?  What  is  this  absurd  vow  you  wish  me  to  take  ?" 
And  he  walked  over  to  a  table  on  which  there  was  a  low 
vase  brimming  with  violets,  and  leaned  his  face  toward  them 
for  a  moment  or  two. 

She  rose  also,  but  she  did  not  follow  him.  She  stood  with 
the  fingers  of  one  hand  slipping  over  the  polished  filigrees 
that  surmounted  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  her  gaze  directed 
downward  upon  its  clustered  ornamentations  as  though  there 
was  something  symbolic  there  in  the  way  of  advisory  help. 

"  You  call  it  an  absurd  vow,  then  ? "  she  queried.  "  There's 
.  .  there's  nothing  to  keep  us  apart  from  one  another  except 
your  dread  of  censorious  things  which  the  world  may  vent 
about  me  ?  On  your  word  of  honor  there's  nothing  except 
just  that?" 

He  turned  and  faced  her.  The  light  struck  him  so  reveal- 
ingly  then  that  she  saw  his  great  pallor  with  an  inward  start, 
and  one  caused  by  sadness  and  joy  strangely  blended.  But 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  219 

the  joy  took  swift  predominance  as  she  now  heard  him  reply 
to  her,  with  a  tone  infinitely  familar,  infinitely  welcome. 

"  On  my  word  of  honor  there  is  nothing  except  just  that." 

His  manner  was  so  ardent  that  she  waited  for  him  to  speak 
still  further,  knowing  he  would  do  so ;  and  very  soon  he  con- 
tinued, with  all  the  love  of  a  life  in  his  tumultuous  utterance. 

"  Oh,  my  Angela,  my  treasured,  my  idolized  Angela !"  he 
exclaimed.  "  If  you  could  only  realize  that  I  cannot  and 
will  not  endure  to  have  you  scorned  !  " 

"  But  if  I  am  not  scorned  by  you,"  she  dissented,  bridling, 
and  almost  fiercely. 

"  No,  no,"  he  murmured,  and  he  recoiled  as  she  advanced. 
"  Some  day  you  would  repent.  I  feel  it — I  am  certain  of  it !  " 

"  Then,"  she  cried,  "  you  are  convinced  that  some  day  I 
would  cease  to  love  you  as  I  love  you  now !  " 

"  Not  that !  " 

"  What  else  ?  .  .  .  what  else  ?  " 

"  All  such  love  as  ours  takes  a  change,  a  tarnish,  sooner 
or  later." 

"That  is  your  old  cynicism  .  .  pessimism  .  .  what  is 
it?  You  always  had  it.  .  .  But  you  would  remain  you, 
Hubert !  /  would  never  change.  You  might,  but  I  never 
would  !  I'm  willing  to  take  the  chances  of  your  changing  ! " 

"  Still  .  .  still,  you  are  his  widow.  That  is,  in  material 
ways." 

"  Material  ways  ?     How  ? " 

"You  understand." 

"  I  do  not  ...  Ah  !  you  mean  that  I  am  living  on  what 
he  left  me  ?  I  would  give  everything  up— yes,  everything ! 
They  say  it's  very  large — the  lawyers  have  told  me — I've 
only  taken  a  little  of  it.  Look  about  this  room.  You  see  ? 
I  have  only  made  it  pretty;  I've  gone  into  no  extrava- 
gances ;  I've  hated  to  spend  much  of  what  he  left  me.  It's 
mine,  but  I've  always  felt  that  some  day  you  might  say  just 
what  you've  said  now." 

"  I  ?     And  what  have  I  said  ?  " 


22O  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  That  I'd  be  the  possessor  of  his  money  !  .  .  .  Hubert, 
do  you  hear  me  ?  I'll  give  it  all  up.  I'll  give  it  up  because 
I  love  you.  If  you  don't  want  me  to  have  a  dollar  of  it  I'll 
hate  to  keep  even  one !  Do  you  hear  me  ? — even  one  !  I 
don't  care,  I  don't  care,  why  should  I  care  for  riches,  when 
you  will  give  me  riches  I  prize  a  millionfold  more  ?  Why 
should  I  care,  Hubert  ?  I  love  you  and  you  love  me  ! 
You've  said  it !  It's  the  whole  world  to  both  of  us  !  You're 
not  forcing  me  into  a  sacrifice ;  you're  simply  choosing 
whether  I  shall  die  or  live — whether  I  shall  go  plodding  on 
for  a  few  years  longer  with  sorrow  in  every  breath  I  breathe, 
or  whether — " 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  then,  and  she  clung  to  him 
while  he  rained  kisses  on  her  lifted  face  .  .  .  But  sud- 
denly he  took  both  her  hands  by  the  wrists  and  forced  her 
away  from  him. 

"  No  .  .  no  .  .  no,"  his  choked  voice  got  breath  to  say. 
"  I  won't — I  will  not.  You  have  your  life  before  you — I 
have  mine.  You  will  give  up  everything  and  find  a  conso- 
lation in  me.  But  what  will  that  consolation  prove  here- 
after ?  They  will  make  you  a  jest  and  a  by-word  !  They 
will  declare  that  you  planned  to  have  me  murder  your 
husband  and  defended  me  in  open  court  afterward.  They 
will  heap  their  infamous  charges  on  your  spotless  character 
.  .  I  am  a  branded  man,  a  man  with  a  stained  and  tainted 
name,  and  you  shall  not  join  yourself  to  me  ...  I  love  you, 
I  love  you,  I  love  you  !  Man  never  loved  woman  more,  I 
think,  through  the  whole  sweep  of  that  human  history  which 
makes  up  the  sum  of  all  man's  and  woman's  loving  !  .  .  . 
But  you  must  not  plead  with  me — you  .  .  ." 

"  Hubert ! "  She  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before 
him,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  in  lovely,  surrendering 
supplication.  "  Woman  never  loved  man  more  ! "  she  cried. 
"  Will  you  leave  me  ?  Will  you  make  my  future  an 
anguish  ?  I  don't  speak  of  your  future — I'm  thinking  only 
of  my  own.  I'm  so  selfish  as  that ;  I'm  selfish  as  love 


DIVIDED  LU'ES. 


221 


always  is  !  See  what  I'm  doing  now  !  You  remember  how 
we  talked  together  "  (her  voice  came  in  quick,  hard  gasps, 
here)  "  of — of  the  novels  they  write  to-day  ?  You  remember 
how  you  used  to  say  that  the— the— realism  .  .  .  what  was 
it  ?  .  .  never  grasped  the  .  .  the  whole  actual  truth  about 
human  suffering,  human  desire  ? "  She  broke  into  a  wild, 
hard,  quick  laugh.  She  was  still  on  her  knees,  and 
her  beautiful  bosom  almost  broke  the  leash  of  its  bodice  as 
she  let  her  form  sway  backward  while  she  watched  him, 
standing  over  her,  in  his  misery,  his  temptation,  his  great 
love,  his  invincible  sense  of  right. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  He  sfooped  and  caught  her  deli- 
cate, flower-like  head  in  his  grasp.  He  kissed  her  brow, 
her  cheeks,  her  lips  .  .  .  there  he  lingered,  for  that  one 
long  kiss  was  indeed  a  good-by,  and  to  him  an  eternal 
one. 

Then  he  fled  out  of  the  room.  He  had  conquered  him- 
self. He  would  not  make  her  his  wife  because  he  believed, 
with  every  impulse  toward  fair-doing  of  which  his  soul  was 
capable,  that  in  the  rendering  of  such  concession,  either  to 
himself  or  to  her,  he  would  be  committing  a  fault  no  after 
regret  could  expiate. 


XVI. 

ANGELA  passed  a  fearful  night.  But  she  rose,  the  next 
day,  with  a  certain  resigned  outlook  toward  the  future  that 
surprised  even  herself.  It  was  all  settled.  He  had  gone 
for  good  ;  they  would  perhaps  never  meet  again.  She  could 
not  blame  him ;  he  had  acted,  altogether,  just  as  she  might 
have  known  that  he  would  act.  From  the  hour  of  that 
terrible  farewell  with  him  his  image  in  her  thought  took  a 
shining  idealism  which  it  had  never  worn  before.  He  was 
lost  to  her  forever,  and  yet  the  splendid  unselfishness  of  his 
choice  must  always  thrill  and  sway  her  moral  being  through- 
"out  the  future.  A  great  happiness  had  been  forfeited,  but 
she  would  never  recall  Hubert,  among  the  years  to  be, 
without  a  glow  of  pride  in  his  nobility  that  would  prove  as 
triumphant  as  it  was  mournful. 

"  I  doubt  if  we  ever  meet  again,"  she  told  O'Hara,  a  few 
days  later.  "  I  am  going  abroad  to  live." 

"Really!  "  he  exclaimed,  astonished  by  the  news.  "To 
live?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  All  ties  are  now  broken  here." 

"  And  there  you  hope  to  make  new  ones  ?  " 

"  Only  the  ties  of  place.  I  have  scarcely  seen  any  of 
Europe  but  a  few  of  its  larger  cities,  and  those  when  I  was 
quite  a  little  girl." 

"  It  is  too  bad  .  .  .  too  bad,"  O'Hara  softly  said,  looking 
down,  and  after  quite  a  pause. 

Angela  gave  one  of  those  little  flute-like  laughs  that  seem 
to  carry  a  sigh  in  it.  "What  is  too  bad?"  she  asked. 
"  My  going  ?  " 

233 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


223 


"  Yes — or  rather  that  which  makes  you  go."  And  then, 
with  an  irrelevancy  which,  after  all,  did  not  sound  like  one 
to  Angela,  he  added  :  "  Do  you  know,  I  still  think  so  much 
of  that  Bradbourne — or  Heath,  as  we  should  now  call 
him  ? " 

"  And  I !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  For  hours  at  a  time  I  am 
haunted  by  him  in  the  strangest  way.  It  is  simply,  I  sup- 
pose, that  the  unexplained  mystery  of  his  dealings  with  my 
husband  has  made  upon  me  a  deep,  ineffaceable  impres- 
sion." 

"  The  mystery  ?  "  O'Hara  inquired. 

"  Is  it  not  one  still  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose  to  call  it  so.  And  yet  he  entered  into 
your  husband's  employ  with  the  motive,  no  doubt,  of  some 
revengeful  project." 

"  Some  revengeful  project  which  he  never  carried  out  ?  " 
said  Angela.  "  But  if  so,  why  did  he  never  carry  it  out  ? " 

"  Lack  of  opportunity  .  .  of  occasion  .  .  of  courage,  if 
we  are  to  credit  his  own  statements." 

"  Opportunity  and  occasion  he  certainly  had  at  a  hundred 
different  times.  As  for  courage,  he  never  seemed  a  man 
lacking  in  that  .  .  .  And  then  it  is  so  strange  :  Hubert 
Throckmorton's  quarrel  with  my  husband,  there  in  the  wood, 
was  partially  relative  to  his  sister;  and  he  heard  those 
words  that  Mr.  Throckmorton  spoke  about  Jane  Heath." 

"  Yes,  he  heard  them,"  conceded  O'Hara. 

"  If  he  had  shot  Mr.  Voght  it  would  have  been  .  .  well, 
it  would  have  been  so  much  more  natural,  somehow.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  thought  so.  He  was  near  enough  to  have 
aimed  a  deadly  shot  and  fired  it." 

Angela  was  biting  her  lips  and  staring  straight  past  O'Hara 
in  a  most  absorbed  fashion.  "  But  he  did  not  fire,"  she  mur- 
mured, slowly  shaking  her  head.  "  He  did  not ;  he  could 
not  have  done  so ;  he  would  have  been  heard  if  he  had." 

O'Hara  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "  There  can 


224  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

hardly  be  any  two  opinions  on  that  point,"  came  the  re- 
sponse ;  "  he  would  inevitably  have  been  heard." 

"  You  have  had  news  of  him  lately  ? "  Angela  asked,  dis- 
continuing her  mood  of  reverie  and  giving  O'Hara  her  wonted 
glance  of  direct  frankness. 

"About  a  week  ago — yes.  I  made  inquiries,  or  rather 
caused  them  to  be  made.  If  you  ask  my  reasons  for  doing 
this  I  can't  precisely  tell  you  them.  Possibly  they  are  the 
same  as  yours  for  being  haunted  by  recollections  of  the 
man." 

"  Well,"  said  Angela.     "  And  you  learned  .  .  .  ?  " 

"That  he  had  been  ill — confined  to  his  rooms  in  that  flat 
where  he  lives  with  his  sister." 

"  You  have  seen  her  ?  "  Angela  inquired,  a  little  tim- 
idly. 

"  No." 

But  it  was  not  long  before  Angela  was  destined  to  see  her, 
and  in  the  most  unforseen  of  manners.  One  morning,  be- 
tween breakfast  and  luncheon,  a  servant  came  to  Mrs. 
Voght  with  the  news  that  there'  was  a  rather  strange-acting 
young  woman  down-stairs,  who  refused  to  give  her  name  but 
begged  to  see  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

"  '  Strange-acting '  isn't  a  word  with  at  all  a  safe  sound  to  it, 
Margaret,"  smiled  Angela.  There  had  been  a  number  of 
very  indigent  people  applying  for  help  at  the  house  in  Stuy- 
vesant  Square,  ever  since  Mrs.  Bleakly  Voght  had  taken  it. 
The  fact  of  her  new  wealth  had  rather  widely  transpired 
among  her  needy  fellow-citizens,  for  such  events  are  apt  to 
do  so  even  in  cities  as  large  as  New  York.  "  I  hope,"  she 
now  continued,  "  that  this  person  didn't  strike  you  as  being 
at  all  out  of  her  head." 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  hurried  Margaret  self-correctively. 
"  Not  that,  ma'am,  at  all.  I  only  mean  that  she  had  a  way 
as  if  her  mind  wasn't  much  on  what  she  was  talking  about, 
and  sort  of  as  if,  too,  ma'am,  she  was  frightened  at  herself 
for  coming.  I  guess  she's  kind  of  a  lady,  though,  ma'am," 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


22$ 


ended  Margaret,  as  if  this  were  a  matter  at  once  dubious  and 
palliative. 

Angela  remembered  her  servant's  words  a  little  while  after- 
ward, for  they  so  perfectly  described  the  woman  who  was 
occupying  one  of  the  drawing-room  sofas  with  her  and  whose 
name  had  just  been  given,  with  a  painful  gasp  of  timidity,  as 
Jane  Heath. 

She  was  thin  and  faded  and  scared-looking,  now,  but  she  had 
once  been  pretty,  as  her  brow  and  chin  yet  showed,  and  there 
lurked  just  enough  refinement  in  her  rapid,  alarmed  speech 
to  make  you  admit  of  her  that  she  was  not  really  mal  ttevte. 
She  spoke  with  a  slight  lisp,  which  might  have  been  fascinat- 
ing before  the  lips  whence  it  proceeded  had  got  that  rather 
sickly  bluish  tinge  they  now  wore,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  a 
look  which  might  have  been  caused  by  the  shedding  of  many 
tears,  and  gave  Angela  an  odd  idea  of  black  velvet  faintly 
frosted  by  age  and  use. 

"  I've  been  thinking  for  whole  days  at  a  time,"  she  told 
Angela,  "  as  to  whether  I  ought  to  come  here — as  to  whether 
you  wouldn't  be  furious  when  you  found  out  who  I  am." 
(Her  manner  was  that  of  the  born  prattler,  and  there  now 
clung  to  it  a  feverish  "  do  or  die  "  kind  of  eagerness  that 
her  listener  soon  found  infinitely  pathetic.)  "  You've  really 
seen  me  once  before,  you  know  ;  still,  you  don't  know,  I'm 
sure.  It  was  that  day  when  I  went  to  visit  Mrs.  Averill.  I 
recollected  you  perfectly  when  I  afterward  saw  you  in  court. 
I'd  .  .  I'd  (yes,  I  will  say  it !)  hated  you  till  then.  After  I 
heard  of  your  marriage  to  him  I  almost  went  crazy.  I'd  be- 
lieved he  would 'pay  me  that  atonement  for  the  madness  he 
had  made  me  commit  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  call  myself  blameless 
— far,  far  from  that !  But  I  was  such  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl- 
only  seventeen— and  he  so  filled  with  worldly  wisdom  !  .  .  . 
But  when  we  met  in  court  it  was  all  different  with  me.  I 
saw  in  your  face  how  you  had  suffered,  and  I  heard  it  (oh,  so 
clearly !)  in  what  you  said.  You  don't  dream  of  how  grand 
and  simple  and  good  you  seemed  to  us  all,  that  clay.  Julius 
15 


226  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

— that's  my  brother,  Julius  Bradbourne  Heath,  though  you 
only  knew  him  as  Julius  Bradbourne — had  let  me  go  down 

to  L after  it  had  been  found  out  that  /  would  not  be 

called  as  a  witness.  So  I  was  in  the  big  crowd  and  saw  you. 
Besides,  I'd  got  to  feel  quite  sure  that  you  had  never  cared 
at  all  for  him — that  you  hated  him,  in  fact." 

Angela  had  not  dreamed  of  being  angry  at  all  this.  It  had 
somehow  given  her  a  thrill  of  vague,  indefinable  expectancy 
when  she  had  learned  who  her  visitor  really  was  ;  and  now 
that  Jane  Heath  had  begun  her  swift,  excited,  impetuous 
monologue,  the  expectancy  deepened.  In  afterward  seeking 
to  explain  this  feeling  she  decided  that  it  was  born  merely  of 
an  inward  mental  revolt  against  the  entire  stagnation  in 
which  a  certain  affair  was  now  sunk.  They  had  let  Hubert 
go  free,  and  now  they  were  beginning  to  forget  that  they  had 
done  so.  But  they  had  never  forgotten,  and  never  would  for- 
get that  his  name  was  smirched  and  stained  and  .branded 
for  life  ! 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  hated  my  husband.?  "  Angela  here 
asked.  "  Your  brother  ?  "  The  tones  that  She  used  were 
not  only  ireless  but  even  kindly  as  well.  They  seemed  to 
reassure  Jane  Heath,  who  now  spoke  with  fewer  gasps  for 
breath  and  a  decidedly  less  rattling  speed.. 

"Well,  yes,  Julius  had  found  that  out.  There  was  one 
day  when  he  saw  you  talking  to  a  gentleman  on  horseback, 
just  outside  the  gate  of  your  own  house  down  at  Ponchatuk. 
Do  you  remember?  Do  you?  He  told  me  he  thought  you 
had  disliked  him  ever  since.  You  recollect,  then,  that  he 
afterward  mentioned  the  meeting  as  if  with  a  mischievous 
purpose  of  making  trouble  ?  That  was  done  to  satisfy  him- 
self concerning  your  true  feelings.  I  mean  your  true  feel- 
ings about  that  gentleman,  Mr.  Throckmorton.  He  had 
read  all  those  things  in  the  newspapers  when  the  quarrel 
occurred  at  Long  Branch.  He  had  some  idea,  had  Julius. 
Ah,  he  had  many  ideas  then  that  he  never  let  me  know 
about.  He  has  talked  with  me  more  since  his  wretched 


Dl TIDED  Lll'ES.  22 / 

sickness  than  he  ever  talked  before.  He  knew  that  you 
once  cared  for  Mr.  Throckmorton,  and  were  engaged  to  him  ; 
the  newspaper  stories  had  caused  him  to  find  it  all  out ; 
they  were  so  searching,  they  went  so  into  the  depths,  you  un- 
derstand. It's  horrible  for  me  to  say  such  a  thing,  but  I've 
come  here  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  all  I'm  aware  of,  so  I 
must  confess  to  you  that  he  had  not  yet  decided  w/iat  sort  of 
a  revenge  he  would  take,  and  that  there  were  times  when  he 
had  even  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  somehow  strike 
his  blow  through  you.  He  listened  afterward  to  the  talk 
between  Bleak — between  your  husband  and  yourself.  You 
never  suspected  it,  perhaps,  but  he  was  somewhere  outside 
of  the  room,  listening.  He  was  very  weak,  was  Julius,  and 
very  bad,  too,  in  his  vengeful  desires.  He's  just  like  me,  in 
the  way  of  feebleness ;  I  think  we're  both  very  weak  about 
anything  that  requires  firm  and  positive  behavior.  You  see, 
he  was  almost  wild  when  he  came  home  from  Australia  and 
found  me  .  .  what  I  was.  I  shall  never  forget  his  rage, 
at  first.  I  thought  he  would  kill  me ;  I  had  to  send  the 
child  away  and  have  her  kept  out  of  his  sight;  there  were 
times  when  I  dreaded  that  he  would  kill  her.  What  saved 
me  in  his  eyes  (that  and  that  alone  ! )  was  my  having  lived 
a  decent  life  after  my  shame  fell  on  me.  He  used  to  kiss 
me  in  a  wild  way  one  minute  and  then  push  me  from  him 
the  next,  crying  out  terrible  things  that  were  full  of  our  poor 
dead  father's  name  and  of  the  horror  father  would  have  felt 
if  he  could  only  have  known !  .  .  .  But  when  Julius  went  to 
live  at  his  house  and  be  his  servant,  I  never  knew  where  he 
had  gone.  He  simply  left  me  and  said  that  business  mat- 
ters I  could  not  understand  would  take  him  a  good  distance 
off.  But  he  went  away  to  .  .  to  punish  .  .  your  husband. 
He  admits  that  now ;  you  know  what  he  openly  said  in 
court.  Still,  as  you  also  know,  he  hesitated;  he  never 
carried  out  his  project,  whatever  it  was  .  .  .  You  saw  how 
sick  a  man  he  looked  and  acted  like  at  the  trial  ?  But  oh,  he 
has  been  much  worse  ever  since.  A  few  days  after  we  both 


228  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

got  home  again  from  L he  was  at  death's  door.  The 

doctors  said  that  it  meant  nervous  prostration.  There  have 
been  days  when  he  would  lie  perfectly  silent,  with  his  eyes 
closed,  and  never  speak  at  all.  Then  he  would  change  quite 
suddenly,  and  act  almost  like  his  old  self.  But  these  alter- 
ations in  him  would  never  last  more  than  a  day  or  two  at  a 
time.  Afterward  he  would  droop  again,  and  more  dread- 
fully than  before.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  were 
in  a  kind  of  living  death.  His  lips  would  often  move, 
though  ;  he  would  whisper  to  himself  with  his  eyes  shut  and 
his  face  so  thin  and  chalky  !  It  has  been  horrible  .  .  hor- 
rible !  " 

She  stopped  speaking,  here,  and  wiped  away  the  gathering 
tears  with  her  handkerchief.  While  she  did  this,  Angela 
said : 

"  Have  you  ever  caught  any  of  those  words  that  he  whis- 
pered to  himself  ? " 

She  nodded  almost  violently ;  her  emotion  prevented  any 
answer  for  a  little  space,  and  then  she  resumed,  with  the 
manner  of  one  who  has  mastered  hysteria  yet  is  not  quite 
secure  as  to  just  how  completely  : 

"  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  There  was  your  husband's  name,  now  and 
then,  and  yours,  and  .  .  and  Mr.  Throckmorton's,  and  .  .  . 
But  it  was  very  hard  to  overhear  anything,  for  he  would 
start  and  open  his  eyes  whenever  I  drew  close  to  his  bed- 
side, no  matter  how  carefully  I  did  it.  Not  that  I  have  ever 
wanted  to  play  the  spy  upon  him  ;  but  it  had  filled  me  with 
such  anxiety  to  feel  that  he  was  lying  there  with  all  kinds  of 
wretched  thoughts  passing  through  his  brain.  Still,  I  never 
believed  his  brain  was  affected  until,  a  fortnight  ago  and 
more,  he  began  to  get  stronger  in  body,  and  care  for  his 
food,  and  occasionally  take  a  little  stroll  out-of-doors.  But 
I'm  not  by  any  means  certain  that  his  mind  isn't  all  right 
still.  His  general  health  is  better;  that  I'm  sure  of.  But 
he  has  long  fits  of  brooding,  and  sometimes  he  will  wake  up, 
as  it  were,  after  one  of  them,  and  speak  to  me.  What  he 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  229 

Says  is  always  the  same  thing.  And  it's  because  of  what  he 
says,  and  of  the  mysterious  doubt  which  will  visit  me  regard- 
ing his  sanity,  that  I've  determined  to  come  here  and  .  . 
and  talk  with  you."  Here  she  laughed  a  desolate  little 
laugh,  checking  it  midway,  and  looking  at  Angela  as  if  she 
had  committed  an  unpardonable  error  in  giving  it  vent  even 
for  such  a  brief  instant.  "  Oh,"  she  went  on,  "  I've  been  an 
awfully  long  time  in  .  .  in  coining  to  the  point,  as  they  say  : 
haven't  I  ? " 

Angela  tried  to  smile,  though  she  did  not  feel  at  all  like 
it.  Still,  the  aim  to  encourage  was  uppermost.  Evidently 
something  noteworthy  and  salient  had  yet  to  be  told,  and  she 
wished  that  it  should  be  told  with  all  attainable  clearness 
and  coherence. 

"  And  are  you  really  just  coming  to  the  point  ? "  she  said. 
"  Has  your  brother  imparted  anything  to  you  which  you've 
grown  convinced  that  I  ought  to  hear  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  cried  Jane  Heath,  with  a  little  impulsive 
movement  in  Angela's  direction  that  she  immediately  re- 
pressed. "  You  ought  to  hear  it !  I'm  sure  you'll  agree 
with  me  that  you  ought,  when  I've  made  it  known  .  .  . 
Julius  is  .  .  is  filled  with  a  plan.  It  frightened  me  almost 
to  death  when  he  first  confided  it  to  me." 

"  A  plan  ? "  questioned  Angela. 

"  Yes.  He  .  .  he  wants  to  get  into  your  country-house  at 
Ponchatuk — Pineland  you  call  it,  do  you  not?  He  wants 
to  get  into  the  house  while  you  are  away  from  it,  and  find 
something,  recover  something." 

"Find  something?  Recover  something?"  Angela  re- 
peated, feeling  her  heart  begin  to  throb,  she  knew  not  why. 

"  He  is  convinced  that  your  country  house  has  been  kept 
closed  since  you  went  away  from  it— that  no  one  ever  lives 
in  it  during  the  winter  months." 

"  That  is  true.  The  gardener  has  a  dwelling  near  by,  but 
there  is  never  anyone  in  the  house  itself  until  the  warmer 
season  comes  on." 


236  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

"  That  is  just  what  my  brother  says.  He  heard  it  while 
he  was  there,  and  has  not  forgotten  it.  His  one  ruling  idea 
is  to  enter  the  house  without  being  seen — oh,  I  may  as  well 
call  things  by  their  names,  madam — to  enter  it  like  a  thief 
in  the  night !  He  doesn't  want  a  living  soul  except  myself 
to  even  dream  that  he  has  been  there." 

"  Except  yourself  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  alone,  of  the  whole  world,  may  share  this  part  of 
his  secret.  It  would  almost  madden  him  with  horror,  I  think, 
if  he  knew  that  I  was  telling  it  to  you.  But  I've  reached 
that  state  when  not  telling  it  almost  maddens  me.  And  you, 
of  all  others,  are  the  one  to  whom  I  feel  that  it  should  be 
made  known.  Of  course  he'd  never  let  me  have  the  dimmest 
suspicion  of  what  his  purpose  really  was,  if  he  could  only 
manage  to  do  without  me.  But  he  can't ;  he  must  have 
some  one  near  him  whose  help  he  can  count  on  when  his 
weak  and  giddy  turns  come  over  him.  And  for  this  reason 
he  talks  with  me  by  the  hour  about  it,  his  language  being  at 
times  so  full  of  strange  repetitions  that  I  get  to  doubting  his 
sanity,  and  have  creeping  chills,  and  am  afraid  to  stop  with 
him  like  that  while  no  one  else  is  near.  He'll  take  my 
hand  in  his  own  thin,  wasted  one,  and  he'll  devour  my  face 
with  his  eyes,  that  seem  so  much  larger  and  are  so  much 
brighter  than  they  used  to  be,  as  they  burn  out  above  his 
sunken  cheeks.  '  I  must  spend  a  certain  space  of  time, 
Jane,  inside  that  house,'  he  will  say,  '  and  no  one  must  see 
me,  no  one  except  you  must  have  the  faintest  idea  that  I'm 
there.  And  not  even  you,  Jane,  must  know  what  I've  gone 
there  to  do.  You  must  keep  watch  while  I'm  doing  it. 
You'll  be  in  the  big  hall.  You'll  never  know;  remember 
that,  Jane,  never.  But  you'll  serve  me  all  the  same,  will 
you  not  ?  .  .  now,  let  us  see.'  .  .  .  And  then  he  will  begin 
to  count  upon  his  fingers  the  different  preparations  we 
ought  to  make.  There  are  two  things  that  always  per- 
plex him  greatly :  one  is  where  we  can  lodge  without 
creating  comment  and  the  other  is  how  to  procure  a 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  231 

false  key  that  will  admit  us  into  the  house  when  our  time 
for  entering  it  arrives.  '  But  there  must  be  a  way  .  .  there 
must  be  a  way,'  he  will  mutter  again  and  again.  And  in 
the  meanwhile  I  am  growing  so  dreadfully  nervous  over  it 
all!  And  for  days  I've  been  tossed  about  between  the 
longing  to  let  you  know  everything  and  the  fear  lest  you 
might  be  very  severe  with  my  brother.  But  lately  a  different 
feeling  has  taken  hold  of  me.  I've  become  certain  that 
I  ought  to  disclose  it  all  because  .  . "  Here  the  speaker 
became  abruptly  silent  and  turned  her  dark,  faded  eyes  full 
upon  Angela. 

"  Because  ? "  came  the  gently  demanding  response. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Jane  Heath,  with  great  abandonment  and 
impulsiveness  of  manner,  while  she  seemed  to  struggle  once 
more  against  the  tears  that  she  had  already  controlled,  "  be- 
cause I  think  .  .  I  imagine  .  .  I — I've  got  some  sort  of 
fancy,  that  there's  evidence  of — of  guilt  hidden  in  your  Long 
Island  house.  And  if  that  is  true  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  for  not  having  put  every  means  in  your  power  to  .  . 
to  take  away  all  blemish  from  the  name  of  Mr.  Throck- 
morton ! " 

Here  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  reached  out  both  hands 
in  a  supplicating  gesture.  Angela  gravely  watched  her  for 
a  moment,  and  soon  slowly  rose  also.  Then,  with  a  swift 
movement,  she  caught  each  of  the  extended  hands  and  held 
them  tightly,  drawing  them  both  toward  her.  But  before 
she  could  pronounce  a  word,  her  visitor  gasped  forth,  with 
an  agitation  that  showed  itself  in  the  throbs  of  her  stretched 
throat  as  she  leaned  her  head  backward  and  at  the  same 
time  strove  to  loosen  this  unexpected  clasp. 

"  No,  no !  It  isn't  right  that  you — you  should  treat  me 
this  way  !  Think  what  I  am — who  I  am !  I — I  should  not 
have  come  here  at  all.  You  are  his  widow.  Think !  And 
//  .  .  " 

"  Never  mind,"  Angela  said.  "  I  know  what  he  was. 
Then,  too,  I  married  him — while  you  .  .  .  Well,"  she  ended, 


2J2  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

with  a  swift,  bitter  smile  that  meant  for  her  hearer  a  token 
of  priceless  indulgence  and  tolerance,  "  I  don't  know  which 
of  us  was  worse.  I  was,  no  doubt.  .  .  " 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that ! "  exclaimed  Jane  Heath,  with  the 
tears  visibly  brimming  her  eyes  and  a  smile  of  unmistakable 
joy  beaming  so  warm  and  sweet  from  her  lips  that  it  made 
Angela  realize  just  how  pretty  she  must  have  been  when  a 
certain  dastardly  deed  wrecked  all  her  trusting  youth.  "  You 
fill  me  with  such  gratitude,  though  !  Ah  !  you  can't  conceive 
what  it  is  !  To  have  a  good  woman  like  you  take  my  hand ! 
It's  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  well,  it's  just  heaven  to  me ! " 

"  I'm  not  a  good  woman,"  Angela  returned,  still  retaining 
the  hands  that  she  had  seized.  "  I  am  very  far  from  good. 
....  But  never  mind  all  that,  now.  If  you  thought  I 
would  not  take  your  hand  because  you  had  done  something 
very  sinful,  you  did  not  know  my  nature — that  is  all.  .  .  . 
There  have  been  times  when  I  have  yearned  to  go  and 
find  just  such  women  as  you  are — women  who  have  erred, 
who  have  behaved  unwisely,  madly,  recklessly,  yet  who  are 
regretful.  Ah,  there's  the  point !  There  is  something  that 
so  commands  a  woman's  best  sympathy  in  the  repentance — the 
honest  repentance  of  a  wrong  done  as  you  did  yours.  .  .  . 
Besides,  I  knew  him  ...  I  knew  and  know  just  what 
the  sin  must  have  been,  on  either  side — just  how  infamous  a 
pressure  of  temptation  such  a  man  as  he  was  may  have  brought 
to  bear  upon  you,  and  just  how  your  youth  and  purity  may  have 
struggled  against  it.  .  .  .  Ah,  I'm  not  so  generous  as  your  tear- 
ful eyes  try  to  tell  me  !  I'm  human,  and  I'm  .  .  a  woman  like 
yourself.  Then,  too,  recollect  that  I'd  heard  about  "all  this  be- 
fore. It  came  to  me  through  a  friend  of  Mr.  Throckmorton — 
a  very  dear  and  noble  friend  of  his.  And  then  there's  your 
personality,  your  face,  your  look,  your  sorrow.  .  .  .  These 
could  not  escape  me.  I  put  the  deepest  faith  in  you,  and  I 
thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  coming  here.  .  .  .  This  may 
sound  strange  to  you,"  Angela  hurried  on — "  that  I  should 
thank  you.  And  why  do  I  thank  you  ?  I  see  your  eyes  ask- 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  ^ 

ing  me  why.  .  .  But  you've  said  some  very  peculiar  words 
to  me — words  that  fill  my -heart  with  a  passionate  and  thrill- 
ing hope.  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand  just  how  much 
hope  you've  wakened  in  me  !  To  take  away  all  blemish  from 
the  name  of  Mr.  Throckmorton  !  Do  you  realize  what  that 
means  ? .  .  Come,  now,  explain  to  me  just  what  it  does  mean 
in  your  own  conception  of  the  words  you've  used.'' 

But  Jane  Heath  only  shook  her  head  negatively ;  and  while 
the  tears  flowed  faster  from  her  eyes,  and  the  look  of  devoted 
thankfulness  toward  Angela  grew  still  more  fervent  than  it 
had  already  shone,  she  tremulously  faltered : 

"  Oh,  I'm  in  doubt  if  I  meant  anything !  .  .  .  .  You're  so 
good,  so  good!  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it.  There  was 
nothing  behind  it.  How  could  there  be  ?  Julius  has  never 
given  me  a  clew.  If  he  had,  I  would  have  told  you.  I'd  have 
told  you  even  if  I'd  thought  you  would  have  rearrested  him.  .  . 
No,  no — not  that !  And  yet  it  was  .  .  it  was  conscience  !  yes, 
it  was  conscience  that  brought  me  to  you  this  day  !  — that  and 
only  that !  I  knew  you  loved  Mr.  Throckmorton,  and  I  felt 
that  there  might  be  a  chance  of  .  .  of  .  .  what  is  the  word  ? 
.  .  I  don't  remember  it  ...  I'm  not  educated  like  you, 
though  I'm  .  .  well,  not  ignorant,  as  you  see.  I — " 

"A  chance  of  exonerating  him?"  replied  Angela,  while 
she  watched  Jane's  perturbed  face  intently. 

"Yes — yes,"  came  the  answer,  in  a  voice  of  fervent  ac- 
quiescence. 

Angela  dropped  the  hands  that  she  had  taken.  A  look  of 
mournful  distrust  had  overspread  her  face. 

"  How  can  Hubert  Throckmorton  be  exonerated  ?  "  she 
exclaimed,  drawing  several  paces  backward  from  the  guest 
whom  she  had  a  brief  while  before  treated  with  so  opposite 
an  ardor.  "  The  law  declares  that  Hubert  Throckmorton 
shot  Bleakly  Voght  by  accident." 

"  By  accident,"  Jane  Heath  iterated,  with  drooped  head. 
"  I  recall  perfectly.  That  was  the  verdict."  Angela  darted 


234  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

toward  her  and  grasped  her  arm.  "  Is  there  any  other  ver- 
dict possible  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  1  Do  you .  .  do  you  even  dream  that 
any  other  could  be  possible  ? " 

'•Yes."   ' 

"  You  do  ?    Tell  me,  then,  what  it  is !    Tell  me  ! — tell  me  !" 

"  I — I  cannot !" 

"  And  yet  you  speak  as  you  have  done  !" 

"  I  speak  of  what  .  .  of  what  seems  to  me  like  guilt  in 
my  brother.  .  .  ' 

"  But  this  guilt — what  was  it  ?  Can  you  give  a  name  for 
it?" 

"  No. " 

"  Then  why  did  you  mention  it  ?  .  .  Because  you  have 
seen  him  tormented  by  a  curious  fear  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  think  that  curious  fear  might  lead  to.  .  .  ? " 

"I  don't  know  what  it  might  lead  to.  I've  seen  it.  It  is 
fear.  It's  like  the  fear  of  a  man  who  has  done  a .  .  a  crime." 

"  A  crime  ! "  Angela  echoed.  "  But  there  was  only  one  shot 
fired.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Don't  you  know  it?  " 

She  leaned  close  to  Jane  Heath  and  put  a  hand  on  each 
of  the  woman's  rather  frail  shoulders. 

Jane  Heath  met  her  vividly  searching  eyes.  "  Yes,  yes. 
But  let  my  brother  go  to  that  place  of  yours  .  .  .  Pineland," 
she  said.  "  Let  him  go.  Let  me  go  with  him.  Find  a  way 
for  both  of  us  to  get  in  at  night  when  all  is  quite  still — when 
he  thinks  there  is  no  one  on  the  watch.  Do  this .  .  wil^  you 
do  it?  .  or.  .  ?" 

Jane's  voice  failed  her,  then.  She  might,  however,  have 
regained  it  a  minute  later,  if  Angela  had  not  suddenly  thrown 
both  arms  about  her  neck  and  said,  with  lips  leaned  close  to 
her  ear: 

"  I  will  do  it !    You  shall  have  every  means  that  you  desire. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  235 

Thank  God  that  you  came !  I  don't  know  why  I  say  that, 
but  I  say  it !  Thank  God  that  you  came  !" 

And  she  kissed  Jane  Heath,  pressing  her  lips  to  the  lips  of 
the  woman  whom  she  knew  to  have  once  been  betrayed  by 
her  husband.  A  little  later  she  said  :  -"We  have  more  to  talk 
about — more  to  arrange.  Your  brother  and  you  shall  go  to 
a  farmer's  cottage  that  I  know  of,  not  far  from  Pineland. 
On  a  certain  night  he  shall  enter  my  house  with  a  key  that 
I  will  provide  for  him — through  you.  You  will  make  every- 
thing seen  plausible  to  him.  It  will  not  be  hard — we  will 
talk  that  over.  .  .  And  when  he  enters  Pineland  I  will  be 
there.  I  will  be  there,  hidden,  with  witnesses.  You 
understand  ? " 

"I  understand,"  replied  Jane  Heath. 


XVII. 

"  I  THINK  he  is  merely  a  madman,"  said  O'Hara. 

Angela  laughed  brokenly,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a 
way  that  might  have  had  numberless  meanings. 

"  Think  as  you  please,"  she   said.     "  It  is  all  arranged." 

It  had  indeed  all  been  arranged,  and  most  carefully.  The 
words  just  recorded  had  passed  between  O'Hara  and  Angela 
in  one  of  the  lower  rooms  at  Pineland.  They  had  arrived  at 
the  old  Voght  homestead  about  an  hour  previously.  Two 
sentinels  were  in  ambush  not  far  away.  The  time  was  now 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  They  were  aware  that 
for  two  days  past  Jane  Heath  and  her  invalid  brother  had 
been  residents  of  a  farm-house  located  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  Pineland. 

Jane  Heath  had  efficiently  deceived  her  brother.  She  had 
been  able  to  convince  him  by  a  certain  tale  the  intricacy  of 
whose  deceptive  falsehood  need  not  concern  us.  She  had 
procured  a  key  wherewith  to  unlock  the  front-door  of  the 
house,  and  had  made  her  brother  believe  that  the  locksmith 
who  fashioned  it  had  done  so  through  the  happy  accident  of 
having  in  his  shop  an  old  wax  impression  of  a  key  with  which 
he  had  supplied  Mr.  Voght  during  the  previous  year.  Two 
dark-lanterns  were  also  ready,  one  for  Julius  Heath  and 
one  for  his  sister.  All  day  the  invalid  had  been  saving  his 
strength  for  that  quarter  of  a  mile  walk  and  the  return.  It 
affected  Jane  with  a  dreary  sense  of  drollery  when  he  said  to 
her,  that  same  afternoon  : 

"  Are  you  sure  these  people  in  the  house  will  not  think  it 
strange  we  should  go  out  like  this  at  night." 

"  Oh,  I've  prepared  them  for  all  that,"  replied  Jane. 
236 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


237 


He  started.  It  seemed  to  his  sister,  nowadays,  as  if  he 
were  always  starting  at  something.  With  the  excessive  pallor 
of  his  cadaverous  face,  with  his  restless,  vigilant,  uneasy  eyes, 
he  looked  like,  a  man  tormented  by  one  of  two  agencies, 
remorse  or  fear — or  perhaps  by  both  together. 

"  Prepared  them  ?  "  he  now  echoed  nervously.     "  How  ?  " 

"  I  said  yesterday  that  you  were  apt  to  feel  stronger  at 
night,  and  that  when  the  weather  was  fine  your  doctor 
thought  there  would  be  benefit  to  you  in  a  long  evening 
stroll.  And  to-night  is  almost  perfect  weather,  you  know." 

This  was  true.  The  stars  beamed  lustrously  from  the 
April  heavens,  and  the  air  had  a  chilly,  bracing  tingle  in  it. 
No  least  hint  of  leafage  had  yet  appeared  on  any  of  the 
trees,  but  the  glamour  of  the  softly  brilliant  starlight  robbed 
them  of  all  gauntness.  Underfoot  the  ground  was  firm  and 
dry,  without  a  trace  of  that  March  thaw  which  is  so  grim  a 
foe  to  the  country  pedestrian. 

Jane,  a  little  while  after  they  had  begun  their  short  journey, 
perceived  that  her  brother  already  gave  signs  of  exhaustion. 
Once  or  twice  he  leaned  heavily  on  her  arm,  which  he  had 
taken.  Still,  he  seemed  upborne  by  a  most  vigorous  deter- 
mination. "  Don't  be  afraid  that  my  strength  will  give  out," 
he  said  to  his  sister,  after  they  had  progressed  about  half 
the  distance  which  they  were  to  traverse.  "  It  won't  give 
out ;  I  may  seem  a  little  feeble,  but  in  reality  I  shall  be  quite 
tough  enough  to  carry  this  little  affair  through.  ...  I  only 
hope,"  he  went  on,  in  a  lingering,  plaintive  way,  "  that  we 
may  get  across  the  lawn  and  into  the  house  without  being 
seen  by  a  soul.  If  there's  even  a  dog,  it  may  ruin  everything. 
You,  Jane,  who  have  been  so  clever,  who  have  found  out 
so  many  things,  have  made  sure  that  the  only  people  on 
the  estate  live  a  good  distance  off  from  the  main  building 
itself.  That's  what  I  was  nearly  certain  of,  as  I  told  you ; 
stilF,  you've  turned  it  into  a  real  certainty.  The  house  is 
empty.  .  .  the  house  is  empty.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  of  that ;  I'm 
very,  very  glad  of  that !  " 


238  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Jane's  conscience  was  keenly  smiting  her,  just  now.  This 
man  was  her  brother,  and  had  placed  the  most  implicit 
trust  in  her  devotion  to  his  mysterious  cause.  She,  herself, 
had  been  to  blame  for  all  that  was  disastrous  in  his  present 
fate.  But  for  her  sin  he  would  have  returned  from  Aus- 
tralia to  the  enjoyment  of  a  happy  home  with  the  sister  for 
whose  companionship  he  had  so  long  yearned.  She  had 
been  horribly,  unspeakably  at  fault  as  regarded  their  pre- 
vious relations,  and  now  she  was  committing  toward  him  an 
act  of  guile  that  would  make  him  turn  and  curse  her  when 
the  truth  became  plain. 

Still,  there  was  another  side  to  the  question,  and  when 
Jane  allowed  herself  to  regard  this,  an  inspiriting  glow  dis- 
pelled her  compunction.  She  had  never  forgotten  Angela's 
entire  presentment  in  court,  that  day — her  face,  her 
demeanor,  her  words.  Until  then  Jane  had  hated  her  for 
being  the  wife  of  Bleakly  Voght ;  but  thenceforward  a 
totally  new  feeling  had  supervened.  It  was  not  difficult  for 
her  to  divine  the  whole  truth,  in  a  general  if  not  a  detailed 
sense.  Angela  had  foolishly  married  one  man,  loving 
another,  and  that  other  was  Hubert  Throckmorton.  Now 
Jane  had  read  the  newspapers  both  before  and  after 
Hubert's  trial.  Her  heart — which  was  a  very  tender  and 
womanly  one — grew  heavy  in  her  breast  as  she  realized  the 
full  darkness  of  that  stigma  which  he  must  evermore  bear. 
Then  gradually  rose  within  her  the  conviction  that  Julius 
might  know  of  some  reason  why  the  stigma  need  not  be 
borne  at  all.  She  pondered  the  potentiality  of  this  fact 
until  there  were  times  when  its  vexing  uncertainty  seemed 
almost  a  threat  to  drive  her  mad.  She  had  no  friends 
outside  of  her  brother,  for  there  were  not  a  few  people  who 
had  turned  from  her  in  the  wrath  of  offended  righteousness 
when  they  learned  that  she  had  become  an  unwedded 
mother,  and  on  this  account  she  had  never  again  sought  any 
close  human  associations.  A  strong  inward  trust,  there- 
fore, that  she  was  about  to  do  something  of  secure  moral 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  239 

worth  blent  with  a  sort  of  desperate  eagerness  for  feminine 
counsel  and  aid.  She  had  never  once  feared  that  she  could 
possibly  be  jeopardizing  her  brother's  life.  Still,  there  were 
moments  when  she  had  sufficient  force  and  nerve  to  tell 
herself  that  it  was  better  for  justice  to  be  carried  out  where 
due  than  for  disgrace  to  be  inflicted  where  undeserved. 

Angela  and  O'Hara  were  seated  together  in  one  of  the 
back  rooms  of  the  homestead.  The  light  had  been  cau- 
tiously turned  rather  low,  but  there  was  no  danger  of 
Julius  Heath  discerning  it  as  he  approached  the  house, 
since  it  could  not  by  any  chance  be  distinguished  from  the 
road  which  he  and  Jane  would  be  sure  to  take.  Such  a  sys- 
tem of  signalling  had  become  pre-arranged  between  the  two 
ambuscaded  men  that  Angela  felt  quite  sure  of  prompt  noti- 
fication as  soon  as  Julius  and  his  sister  appeared. 

"  You're  skeptical,''  she  said  to  O'Hara,  as  they  sat  and 
faced  one  another  in  the  dimness.  "  You're  skeptical,  and 
I  don't  blame  you  for  being  so.  I  suppose  I'm  really  that 
way  myself." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  softly  laughed  O'Hara,  "  there  seems 
so  little  to  be  skeptical  or  otherwise  about!'" 

"  You're  right,"  said  Angela.  She  turned  and  stared  for 
a  moment  at  the  somewhat  feebly-glimmering  lamp.  "  That 
looks  so  theatrical,  doesn't  it  ?  "  she  added.  "  I  was  read- 
ing, the  other  day,  something  that  one  of  the  '  naturalistic ' 
novel-writers  had  asserted  in  high  scorn  of  his  more  roman- 
tically inclined  brethren.  Good  heavens!  as  if  life  were 
not  both  ordinary  and  extraordinary,  prosy  and  fantastic, 
humdrum  and  spectacular!  This  little  episode  in  which 
we're  about  to  take  part  .  .  isn't  it  like  the  last  act  of  a 
drama,  and  rather  a  lurid  one  as  well  ? " 

"I  hope  there  will  be  a 'truly  dramatic  end  to  it,"  smiled 
O'Hara,  "  and  not  a  farcical  one." 

"  It  may  be  farcical,"  admitted  Angela,  with  a  very  seri- 
ous pressing  together  of  the  lips.  Then  a  sudden  light 


240  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

seemed  to  sweep  across  her  face  in  the  dimness.  "  Oh, 
but  if  only  I  could  gain  some  sort  of  priceless  knowledge 
that  would  wipe  away  the  blot  from  his  life  !  If  only  I 
could !  what  a  glorious  gift  it  would  be  to  him  from  me ! 
From  me,  who  once  gave  him  so  bitterly  different  a  gift  in 
other  days.  .  .  There,  you've  that  pitying  look  again,  as 
though  you  thought  me  almost  as  crazy  as  you  believe  Julius 
Heath.  .  .  .  Well,  this  is  a  crazy  thing  for  me  to  do,  surely  ! 
coming  down  here,  I  mean,  with  no  one  but  yourself  and 
those  men.  Suppose  we  failed  to  catch  the  last  train  for 
town  ! "  She  rose  abruptly,  and  lifted  her  clasped  hands  in 
a  dismayed  manner.  "  I  have  brought  no  servants  with 
me ;  I  am  quite  alone  except  for  you  .  .  .  and  it  could 
never  be  held  a  pardonable  thing  if  it  were  known  that 
I  ..."  She  paused,  and  O'Hara  saw  the  color  steal  into 
her  face. 

"  You  never  thought,  did  you  ? "  he  said,  with  a  gentle 
accent  of  courtesy  that  she  instantly  appreciated.  "  But  I 
thought — I  remembered.  If  you  were  detained,  Mrs.  Voght, 
there  is  the  gardener's  wife  (a  friend  of  mine,  by  the  way, 
good  old  Mrs.  Malley)  whom  I  could  get  to  come  over  and 
play  duenna  for  you  in  no  time  at  all." 

"  And  you  thought  of  that ! "  she  exclaimed,  stretching 
forth  both  her  hands  to  him.  "  Oh,  how  kind  of  you ! 
How  like  you !  You  see,  my  mind  has  been  sa  occupied,  so 
perplexed ! " 

O'Hara  drooped  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  shook  his 
handsome  curled  head.  "  Don't  thank  me"  came  his 
response.  "  Hubert  recollected,  and  reminded  me  this  very 
afternoon." 

"  Hubert !  But  you  told  me  that  he  so  strongly  disap- 
proved this  whole  idea ! " 

"He  did  disapprove  it.  But  nevertheless  he  felt  con- 
vinced of  your  resolute  obstinacy  in  carrying  it  out." 

Just  then  a  soft  yet  very  clear  knock  sounded  at  one  of 
the  doors. 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  24! 

"  Hark,"  murmured  Angela.  "  It's  the  sign  that  they  are 
here."  She  hurried  toward  the  door  with  silent  speed, 
while  O'Hara  followed  her. 

One  of  their  sentries  had  come  to  tell  them  that  Julius 
and  his  sister  had  arrived  and  were  entering  the  house. 
16 


XVIII. 

THE  key  which  Julius  carried  (and  which  he  insisted  on 
using  himself,  although  his  hand  shook  most  feebly  while 
he  did  so)  opened  the  big  front  door  of  Pineland  as  soon 
as  it  was  turned  in  the  lock. 

Presently  Heath  whispered  to  his  sister,  after  they  had 
found  their  way  into  the  dark,  still  hall : 

u  Now  stand  just  here.'  Don't  move.  Wait  for  me. 
You've  your  lantern.  You  needn't  let  its  light  shine  a  bit. 
No  matter  how  long  I'm  away,  wait  for  me.  I  may  not  be 
gone  very  long.  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  upstairs.  I  may, 
but  I  don't  think  I  shall.  You  understand  me,  Jane,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  back. 

She  watched  his  dim  figure,  seen  inky-black  behind  the 
cylindrical  shaft  of  light  that  his  own  lantern  emitted,  until 
he  had  disappeared  into  what  seemed  a  room  opening  off 
from  the  same  hall  where  she  herself  yet  remained  immov- 
ably stationed. 

Heath  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  an  apartment  which 
he  well  remembered.  In  Bleakly  Voght's  earlier  days  of 
sportmanship  he  had  been  wont  to  keep  all  guns  and  fish- 
ing-tackle here,  and  even  now  there  were  proofs  of  this 
past  occupancy  in  some  dingy  covered  baskets  that  may 
once  have  held  scores  of  rosy-gilled  Long  Island  trout,  or 
in  big  coils  of  trolling-line,  with  their  oval  "  squids  "  of  lead 
and  that  dark  latent  hook,  curving  at  the  end  of  each,  which 
had  made  many  a  blue-fish  writhe.  The  room  itself  was 
rather  shabbily  furnished  than  otherwise ;  Voght  had  once 
said  of  it  that  every  old  bit  of  furniture  used  to  be  put  there 
after  it  became  unfit  to  keep  anywhere  else,  and  this  was 
242 


DIVIDED  LIVES. 


243 


certainly  true  of  a  huge  hair-cloth  sofa  with  bird-claws  of 
tarnished  gilt,  a  monstrous  mahogany  bureau  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  small  glass  knobs,  and  a  few  other  like  objects,  as 
antique  as  they  were  uncouth. 

It  was  in  a  certain  large  closet  of  this  room  that  Julius 
had  found  the  two  guns  which  he  and  Voght  had  taken 
with  them  on  their  momentous  trip.  He  now  went  directly 
to  this  closet,  but  soon  saw  that  neither  gun  was  there. 

He  then  swept  the  light  of  his  lantern  eagerly,  ransack- 
ingly  about  the  room.  On  a  sudden  he  uttered  a  short, 
glad  cry.  He  had  seen  a  weapon  of  the  sort  that  he 
searched  for,  leaning  against  the  opposite  wall. 

His  tremulous  hand  set  down  the  lantern  on  a  table  close 
beside  him.  Then  he  darted  forward,  and  seized  the  gun. 

"  It's  mine — it's  the  one  I  had — what  luck,  what  luck  !  " 
broke  from  him ;  and  while  he  framed  these  words  he  did 
not  know  that  he  spoke  at  all. 

In  the  steady  stream  of  light  he  soon  was  holding  the 
piece,  while  he  examined  it  with  a  scrutiny  that  swiftly  told 
him  what  he  desired  to  know.  It  was  now  plain  that  he 
had  discovered  one  barrel  to  be  empty  and  the  other  loaded. 
With  great  softness  he  laid  the  gun  on  the  table.  After 
doing  so  he  began  another  search  with  his  lantern.  But  it 
was  briefer  than  the  last.  Very  near  to  the  spot  where  the 
gun  had  been  discovered,  he  now  came  across  the  ammuni- 
tion which  he  had  carried  on  that  fatal  day.  Evidently 
someone  had  tossed  it  here  beside  the  gun  after  thrusting 
it  all  into  this  game-bag  which  he  recollected  also  to  have, 
taken  with  him.  Yes,  everything  that  he  needed  was  here ! 
He  brought  the  bag  back  with  him  to  the  table,  placed  the 
lantern  beside  it,  and  took  up  the  gun  once  more.  The 
glare  on  his  face  gave  it.  an  unearthly  lividness,  ghastly  and 
worn  as  it  had  been  for  weeks  past.  But  the  wild,  trium- 
phant smile  that  parted  his  lips  added  a  demoniac  element 
to  his  elfin  weirdness,  and  made  him  look  like  some  hellish 
minion  of  crime  and  horror  while  he  stood  there  with 


244  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

skinny  hands  clutching  what  he  had  so  long  and  so  avidly 
craved.  Again  his  lips  opened  and  his  voice  sounded ;  but 
he  did  not  know  this  time  that  he  spoke,  any  more  than  he 
had  known  it  previously. 

"  Better  load  it  than  drop  it  down  there /  Better  load  it 
and  leave  it  ...  load  it  and  leave  it  ...  that's  far  the 
best  way !  If  I  took  it  out  in  the  hall  Jane  might  easily  see 
what  it  was  while  I- passed  her !  .  .  .  Load  it  and  leave  it 
.  .  .  load  it  and  leave  it  ...  There's  no  better  way  than 
just  that." 

His  fingers  trembled  so  that  there  seemed,  at  first,  little 
chance  of  his  being  able  to  load  the  weapon.  But  by  the 
time  that  he  had  really  succeeded  in  commencing  to  load  it, 
something  occurred  which  made  a  great  cry  burst  from  him. 

Two  men  had  slipped  into  the  room  like  phantoms.  One 
held  a  big  lighted  lamp,  \vhich  he  instantly  deposited  some- 
where, .  while  it  filled  the  room  with  its  rays.  The  other 
glided  straight  up  to  Heath  and  snatched  the  gun  from  his 
hands. 

"  You  needn't  load  that  gun,  Mr.  Heath,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  want  it,  sir,  just  as  it  is." 

Heath  dropped  into  a  chair,  gasping.  "  Spies  on  me  ! " 
were  the  first  words  that  left  him. 

"You're  right,  there,"  said  the  man  who  had  brought  in 
the  lamp  and  who  was  not  so  civil  as  he  who  had  seized  the 
gun.  "  What  did  you  want  to  put  the  load  back  for  ?  Eh  ? 
What  made  you  say  it  was  luck  for  you  to  get  that  gun 
instead  of  some  other  ?  That  was  yours — the  one  you 
carried  the  day  Mr.  Voght  was  shot.  Oh,  you  needn't 
shake  your  head ;  it  was.  And  how  is  it  you're  found 
sneaking  into  this  house  with  a  false  key,  after  dark,  for  no 
purpose  under  heaven  but  to  re-load  that  gun  ?  Why  did 
you  talk  about  loading  it  and  leaving  it,  and  say  that  to  do 
this  was  better  than  to  drop  it  down  there  ?  Down  where  ? 
What's  the  meaning  of  this  mystery?  You've  got  to  answer 
some  time  or  other,  and  you  may  as  well  do  it  now." 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  24$ 

"I'll  never  do  it,"  Heath  muttered,  as  if  through  his 
meeting  teeth.  "  Nobody  can  tell  my  reason  for  coming 
here.  Even  my  sister  Jane  (who  must  have  betrayed  me  in 
the  meanest  way !)  cannot  tell  it.  I'll  keep  the  secret,  such 
as  it  is  ...  I'll  keep  the  secret  till  I  die  !" 

But  a  voice  full  of  deep  vibrations  now  spoke.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  and  Heath  recognized  it  instantly,  with  a 
choked,  shivering  moan.  The  door  on  whose  threshold 
Angela  and  O'Hara  had  been  standing,  was  bathed  in 
shadow.  They  had  heard  nearly  all  that  had  passed  since 
the  entrance  of  the  two  men.  A  few  seconds  before  Heath 
finished  speaking,  Angela  had  felt  what  she  believed  the 
whole  explanatory  truth  dart  through  her  astonished  mind. 

"  You  cannot  keep  the  secret,  Bradbourne,"  she  said. 
"  No,  for  I  have  guessed  it  if  the  others  here  have  not. 
You  fired  at  the  same  second  of  time  that  Mr.  Throckmorton 
did,  and  so  the  report  seemed  like  a  single  one.  You  fired, 
meaning  to  kill  Mr.  Voght.  Then  you  found  out  what  had 
accidentally  occurred  to  the  gun  of  Mr.  Throckmorton. 
This  accounts  for  all  your  strange  behavior  after  the  dread- 
ful affair  took  place.  It  accounts  for  your  desire  to  come 
here  without  having  a  soul  except  your  sister  know  that  you 
had  come.  It  accounts  for  everything— everything ! "  .  .  . 
Her  eyes  were  flaming,  her  bosom  was  in  a  tumult  of  pul- 
sation, as  she  now  turned  toward  O'Hara.  "Am  I  not 
right  ? "  she  cried.  "  It  must  have  been  that !  I  remember, 
years  ago,  hearing  my  father,  who  was  once  a  confirmed 
sportsman,  tell  some  story  of  two  reports,  both  produced  at 
the  same  moment,  sounding  exactly  like  one,  and  deceiving 
all  who  were  within  earshot.  I  — " 

"  Good  God  !"  struck  in  O'Hara.  He  caught  one  of  her 
hands,  and  stooping  down,  impetuously  kissed  it.  "  You've 
guessed  what  the  cleverest  lawyers  in  the  country  failed  to 
dream  of— what  these  detectives  and  I,  even  after  the  devel- 
opments we've  witnessed,  would  doubtless  never  have  hit 


246  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

upon  !  This  is  like.  .  .  well,  by  Jove,  it's  like  the  purest 
inspiration  and  nothing  a  whit  less  !  " 

She  smiled,  letting  him  hold  her  hand,  and  saying  quite 
low  and  with  great  speed:  "Call  it  that !  I  shall  like  to  believe 
it  was  that !  I  shall  always  like  to  believe  it  the  inspiration, 
the  intuition,  of  my  love — my  devoted,  repentant  love  !" 

Heath  did  not  catch  these  words,  but  he  had  caught 
O'Hara's,  and  they  were  now  producing  a  terrible  effect 
upon  him.  He  strove  to  rise  from  the  .chair  into  which  he 
had  sunk,  but  failed;  and  then,  in  tones  husky,  defiant, 
fraught  with  the  most  rebellious  and  hysteric  challenge,  he 
shouted: 

"  It's  .  .  it's  no  inspiration — it's  falsehood — nothing  but 
falsehood  !  I — I  did  not  come  here  to  re-load  that  gun.  I 
saw  it  while — while  I  was  searching  for  something  else. 
For  something  else,  do  you  hear  ?  I — I  happened  to  notice 
that  one  barrel  had  been  discharged  since — since  I  took  it 
with  me  that  day.  This  was  all — this  explains  my  attempt 
to  re-load  the  gun.  .  .  Ah,  you  are  so  clever,  Mrs.  Voght ! 
But  you  are  too  clever,  just  at  present !  You've  hated  me 
for  a  good  while  past !  You  ..."  His  further  articulation 
became  a  mere  pell-mell  incoherence.  He  tried  once  more 
to  rise  from  his  chair,  and  then,  failing  a  second  time, 
dropped  backward.  His  head  fell  on  one  side  ;  he  looked  as 
though  he  had  been  smitten  by  death. 

"  Oh,  if  it  should  be  !  "  Angela  faltered,  while  she  busied 
herself  with  his  resuscitation  as  best  she  could.  Jane  had 
appeared,  but  was  almost  incapable,  through  extreme  dismay 
and  alarm,  of  doing  anything  except  stare  helplessly  at  her 
brother's  white,  spectral  face.  * 

41  It  is  not  death,"  O'Hara  soon  whispered  to  Angela. 
"  He  is  a  miserably  weak  and  shattered  man,  but  he  may 
have  months  of  life  yet  before  him.  If  he  has,  we  must  use 
every  means  toward  obtaining  a  full  confession  of  his  crime. 
But  even  if  none  should  come,  the  testimony  of  these  two 
men — both  bearing  flawless  reputations — will  be  sufficient  to 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  24? 

cleanse  Hubert's  name.  That,  and  your  wonderful  solution 
of  the  enigma  ; — for  such  it  undoubtedly  is,  and  as  such  it 
will  be  accepted." 

But  Angela  shook  her  head  with  sad  incredulity.  "  Noth- 
ing will  be  accepted,"  she  replied,  except  this  man's  complete 
and  lucid  confession,  made  before  the  most  disinterested  wit- 
nesses. Unless  we  obtain  that,  it  will  be  said  that  we  have 
sought  to  exculpate  Hubert  by  an  artful  ruse.  Ah,  you  know 
the  world  as  well  as  I  do  !  It  believes  the  worst  about  any- 
one whom  it  has  condemned  until  every  vestige  of  compro- 
mising statement  has  been  rendered  null !  " 

Heath  did  not  positively  recover  consciousness  that  night, 
nor  for  several  days  afterward.  He  was  carried  into  one  of 
the  upstairs  chambers  at  Pineland,  and  lay  there,  visited  by 
two  or  three  competent  physicians  and  most  carefully  nursed 
by  Angela  and  his  sister.  A  severe  stroke  of  paralysis  had 
befallen  him,  and  the  first  glimmers  of  reason  that  mani- 
fested themselves  gave  slight  hope  of  his  brain  ever  regain- 
ing its  natural  equipoise. 

After  about  a  fortnight  of  semi-stupor,  however,  he  sur- 
prised his  watchers  by  becoming  thoroughly  clear-headed 
once  more.  But  he  was  awakening  only  to  die  of  another 
trouble— a  heart  complaint  which  at  intervals  caused  him 
acute  suffering  and  made  him  clearly  realize  that  his  end  was 
imminent.  This  realization  altered  the  entire  trend  of  his 
former  secretive  resolve.  On  first  recovering  consciousness 
he  had  upbraided  his  sister  bitterly  for  her  treachery. 
Afterward,  in  his  weakness  and  pain,  he  had  pardoned  her. 
Angela  had  spent  hours  at  his  bedside,  praying  him  to  do 
so,  and  at  last  she  had  succeeded.  But  she  also  succeeded 
in  another  far  more  vitally  important  matter.  She  and 
death  together  unlocked  at  last  the  stubborn  mood  of  his 
silence.  One  afternoon,  propped  up  by  pillows  and  in  the 
company  of  certain  auditors  who  had  been  hastily  summoned 
to  hear  him,  he  declared  himself  the  murderer  of  Bleakly 
Voght. 


248  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

Angela  had  been  right.  Just  at  the  same  instant  that 
Hubert's  gun  was  discharged  by  accident,  Heath  had  delib- 
erately fired  upon  Voght.  A  hundred  times  the  man  had 
made  up  his  mind,  before  then,  to  kill  the  wronger  of  his 
sister,  and  a  hundred  times  he  had  left  such  design  unac- 
complished. But  Hubert's  own  angry  reference  to  the 
shame  inflicted  upon  Jane  had  suddenly  nerved  him  into 
homicidal  action,  standing  as  he  did  stand  there  among  the 
obscuring  trees.  He  had  not  stopped  to  think  of  the  con- 
sequences his  act  would  entail — he  had  stopped  for  that 
only  too  often  already  .  .  .  When,  a  brief  while  later,  he 
had  seen  Hubert  kneeling  beside  the  fallen  man  and  accus- 
ing himself  of  being  the  author  of  Voght's  death,  then  a 
temptation  had  swept  through  Heath  to  escape  by  deceitful 
means.  He  alone,  in  the  whole  world,  knew  of  those 
strangely  simultaneous  shots,' one  of  which  had  passed  with- 
out harm  by  Voght,  and  the  other  of  which  had  dealt  a 
deadly  intended  wound.  Later  he  had  striven,  as  we  have 
seen,  partially  to  shield  Hubert  by  inducing  the  latter  to 
say  nothing  on  the  subject  of  his  own  presence  so  near  the 
scene  of  the  shooting,  and  hence  to  suppress  all  that  damn- 
ing record  of  a  previous  quarrel  between  the  two  men.  Not 
succeeding  in  this  plan,  he  had  entrenched  himself  behind 
his  apparently  impregnable  innocence.  But  months  after- 
ward his  guilty  fears  had  begun  morbidly  to  prey  upon  him. 
He  remembered  his  own  foolish  omission  to  re-load  the 
empty  barrel  of  that  gun.  True,  no  one  had  ever  thought 
to  inquire  concerning  it ;  it  had  been  as  little  in  the  minds 
of  lawyers,  of  judge,  or  of  jury  as  the  gun  carried  by  O'Hara 
or  Voght  himself.  Yet  there  it  remained,  in  some  one  of  the 
many  rooms  of  Pineland.  Might  it  not  be  eventually  exam- 
ined and  its  condition  commented  upon  ?  In  vain  he  sought 
to  lull  this  insidious  and  augmenting  fear.  It  haunted 
and  teased  him  as  a  gadfly  might  haunt  and  tease  a  bound 
captive.  While  he  grew  more  ill  in  body  his  mind  grew 
more  susceptible  to  its  grim  and  shrewd  visitations.  Finally 


DIVIDED  LIVES.  249 

he  had  felt  inaction  an  unendurable  torture.  He  must 
return  to  Pineland,  and  either  make  way  with  the  gun  by 
dropping  it  into  an  old  well  not  far  from  the  house  itself,  or 
else  reload  its  tell-tale  empty  barrel !  .  .  . 

His  confession  was  made  public,  and  its  delivery  had 
been  attended  by  circumstances  of  such  strong  credibil- 
ity that  in  a  few  more  days  Hubert  Throckmorton  found 
himself  overwhelmed  by  legions  of  congratulations.  No 
doubt  was  possible  any  longer.  His  hottest  newspaper  foes 
were  forced  to  make  open  retraction  of  their  charges.  He 
stood  before  the  world  as  a  man  with  a  character  all  the 
more  spotless  because  of  that  dark  brand  which  had  been 
removed  from  it. 

Heath's  death  occurred  on  the  day  that  succeeded  his 
most  fateful  deposition,  and  was  held  to  have  been  accel- 
erated by  the  intense  excitement  which  that  event  pro- 
duced. 

Only  now  did  Hubert  dare  trust  himself  to  meet  Angela, 
and  now  he  appeared  before  her,  burning  to  express  his 
devoted  thanks.  O'Hara  had  told  him  of  how  it  had  been 
she  who  had  really  reinstated  him  in  the  old  place  of  honor 
among  his  fellow-men.  But  for  her  the  secret  of  Heath 
might  forever  have  remained  undivulged,  needing  that  one 
decisive  mental  leap  toward  its  solution  which  mathema- 
ticians tell  us  it  has  been  the  higher  gift  of  their  ruling 
geniuses  at  rare  intervals  to  take. 

Hubert  made  some  reference  of  this  sort  during  his  first 
happy  interview  with  Angela.  But  she  tossed  her  head  a 
little,  and  somewhat  brusquely  answered  : 

"  It  wasn't  more  than  ordinarily  bright  of  me,  after  all.  I 
merely  shine  in  a  relative  way.  You  know  the  French 
saying  :  '  Dans  le  pays  des  aveiigks]  etc.  All  those  wiseacre 
lawyers  were  so  ridiculously  dull  about  it ;  they  needed  a  bit 
of  feminine  common-sense  to  open  their  sleepy  eyes." 

"Ah,"  said  Hubert,  "they  had  none  of  them  your  sweet 
talisman  of  discovery  !  " 


2 SO  DIVIDED  LIVES. 

She  sighed  and  trembled  as  his  arms  clasped  her. 
"  Hubert,"  she  murmured,  "  at  last  I've  redeemed  all  the 
bitterness  of  those  yesterdays  ?  Tell  me  that  I  have !  " 

"You  have  more  than  done  so,"  he  answered;  and  then 
he  put  his  lips  to  hers,  and  a  little  later  she  heard  him 
whisper,  "  My  love,  my  one  inalienable  love  ! — my  wife  that 
soon  shall  be  !  "  .  .  . 

But  before  they  were  married  Angela  insisted  on  signing 
away  every  dollar  of  her  dead  husband's  fortune  to  a  few  of 
his  nearest  relatives. 

"I  come  to  you,  Hubert,"  she  said,  "just  as  I  would  have 
come  in  those  other  times.  I  was  a  poor  girl  then,  you 
know.  I  would  have  brought  you  nothing  then  ;  I  bring 
you  nothing  now." 

"  You  bring  me  everything  now,"  he  answered,  "  and 
you  are  all  the  dearer  because  of  destiny's  trying  delays ! " 


A    000033090    2 


